


Soft Drop

by xntricgrrrl



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Divorce, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xntricgrrrl/pseuds/xntricgrrrl
Summary: Used to creating the perfect Mise-en-scene and fine-tuning every element, Charlie struggles with relinquishing control as his divorce takes on a life of its own. Now, on the verge of losing everything, he considers what is expendable, what's worth salvaging and what's essential.





	1. Objects in Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely on the two short trailers, I have taken off my clothes and thrown myself head-long into the Charlie rabbit hole. I don't understand what about this character is so freakin' HOT, but this is something I definitely need to live vicariously through (at least until my Kylo/Reader story gets jealous) . Conceived as no more than a one-shot, but I really don't know who I think I'm kidding with that.

You watch Nicole leave the courtroom first. Head held high, eyes looking neither right nor left, she strolls past you with her bevy of lawyers at her heels. You had been friends. Almost equals. Somehow, she makes you feel like a child now as you sit on the bench in the hallway, stupidly clutching a lunchbox in your hands. Makes you feel like a naïve child, wearing her mother’s too-big dress and high heels, attempting to play house. Surrounded by her protective bubble, Nicole rounds a corner and disappears from view. She’s such a better woman than you are.  
Charlie follows not long after. His own team of attorneys give him a few reassuring (but totally not gay) pats on the arm before heading down the hall to…. wherever it is that lawyers eat lunch in this massive courthouse.  
He watches them for a moment before turning and making his way towards you. His eyes are red and his hair disheveled from where he must have been running a hand through it all morning. He looks like he’s in the middle of one of those really nasty tension headaches. And you’re pretty sure you threw in some pain reliever with lunch and why does he look so much taller when his shoulders are slumped like that?  
“I brought lunch,” you whisper, holding it up like an offering. And he stares at it too long. It makes you wonder if your nail polish is peeling or if he’s just now noticing, and is properly horrified by the pattern of tiny parasols dancing across the lunch box. But it’s insulated. And it was on sale. And maybe you are just a dumb little girl, trying to play at a big girl’s game.   
He blinks hard before looking up into your face. “I…” And he stops. You remember the afternoon you’d helped him pick out the pile of books with titles like “Secrets to Communicating Effectively” and “Fair Fighting in Relationships: When to Cease Fire”. You remember how you’d both rolled your eyes at the concept of self-help, but things had started to look bleak between him and Nicole and any kind of help that would grant some insight was welcome.   
You had insisted on reading paragraphs aloud to him as the two of had walked back up Broadway, almost shouting over the sounds of the traffic and tourists. Charlie occasionally reaching out to take your arm and pull you out of the path of passersby, while you remained completely engrossed in the book. “Listen to what it says here, though…”  
It had all seemed like a bunch of New Age psychobabble and none of it made any sense. But you were all in. You had gladly taken on the mantle of the heroic friend, committed to helping them through the rough patch. All three of them. Why else would you have grabbed the book of yo-yo- tricks (yo-yo included, of course) for Henry while you were at the bookstore? You were going to keep this family together, dammit.   
In the end, the books made no difference. Though Charlie had latched onto the concept of “The I Statement” and saw great results at work. Apparently, actors respond a lot better to statements like “I really need to see that tension reflected here in your movements” than they did to things like “You’re not paying attention to the fucking blocking.” Who knew?   
But this is one production he hasn’t been able to gain control over. He throws his hands up in a gesture of confusion and frustration and shakes his head. “I don’t know.” The crack in his voice makes it feel like your own heart is cracking and you want to reach out and grab him, to comfort him or distract him or just hang on like hell and hold him together. But not in this building, where affection is evidence, where the walls have ears and even Lady Justice sees everything.   
How many days had this hearing been going on? Less than a week, but it still felt like an eternity. As it is, you feel like one of the characters in No Exit, stuck in this perpetual hell. You can’t imagine what it must be like for Charlie and Nicole to be right in the middle of it. No, that’s not entirely true. You do know what it’s like for Charlie. “Well then,” you think as you place the lunch box next to you on the bench and stand up. “Let’s get on with it.”   
You’d always loathed the phrase “One thing led to another”. It’s a cheap cop-out and only exists to allow people to feel absolved of any wrongdoing. Regardless of how wrong the doing was. Such bullshit. There are always stopping points along the way, always places where choices can be made and actions can be halted. Nothings leads itself and no one is blameless.   
When the line was clearly drawn between the two enemy camps, picking a side hadn’t required much thought. It was an easy transition to go from the role of the long-time friend who was ready to fight tooth and nail to save your marriage to the long-time friend who will support you through all of this no matter what. “No matter what, Charlie. I promise.”   
There had been the texts of “Is rehearsal done yet? I’m on my way over now with Marlon Brando and ice cream” or “U need to get out of the fucking house. Shitfaced tonight?” Then it was either self-pity and peanuts at the dive down the block or way too many shots and therapeutic Karaoke (what is it about Livin’ on a Prayer and Don’t Stop Believing?).  
On multiple occasions, Charlie had summoned you to be extra support during meetings with his attorneys. Even if the only support you felt like you could provide was loaning out your phone charger or the occasional offer make another coffee run. Or else you were falling asleep nestled in a corner of the sofa amid a sea of legal pads, highlighters and phone records. That sofa was a death trap anyway, deep and wide and surprisingly soft for a Salvation Army find.  
But Charlie had still wanted you there. And so, you were always there. Round the clock support. Always available for a reassuring phone conversation or one of those hugs where he rested his chin on top of your head, a habit formed years ago. The seasoned and cynical graduate students never missed an opportunity to demonstrate how much older and wiser (and taller) they were than you incoming freshmen. Even the TA’s would start off as tormenters before becoming mentors. In college, Charlie linking you together like Tetriminos had been amusing, albeit slightly condescending. Now, years later, it was just muscle memory. Damn theater kids and their lack of boundaries.  
Maybe you should have noticed when the hugs started getting longer, how he would hold on just a bit tighter. Or how you would stand in the bedroom doorway, reminding Charlie that he really should put on a clean shirt before going to bed. It probably wasn’t necessary for you to continue lingering there after he’d pulled a shirt over his head, watching his shoulders flex and counting each of his vertebra. The warning signals and red flags were all there. But you were all in.   
“Dude, this sucks so much!” you’d declared apropos of nothing one night, after the two of you had finished a late dinner. You’d wiped the last of the bit of soy sauce from your fingers and flopped back into your designated corner of Charlie’s sofa. Even take-out from your favorite restaurant hadn’t been enough to lighten your mood. Even imagining the look on Henry’s face in the morning when he saw the new back pack you’d left on his bed wasn’t enough. Who cared if Auntie (Y/N) spoiled him with some new overnight luggage? It had to be hard for that kid, going back and forth like this. He deserved a treat now and then.   
On the other side of the sofa, Charlie was hunched forward, elbows on his knees and massaging his temples. He looked over at you, cheek resting in his palm, red eyes and wrinkled forehead. And you were seized by guilt over your outburst. “Go take some Advil or something,” you’d told him, nudging his knee with your foot. “You’re killing me.”   
And one thing had led to another. It wasn’t a cheap cop-out at all. It was physics. Simple Laws of Motion. Moving to sit next to Charlie and leaning against him led to an arm around you and a whispered “Thank you… for everything.”   
He’d smelled like sweet and sour sauce and laundry detergent and you’d unthinkingly snatched one of the fortune cookies off the coffee table and turned it over in your hand. You couldn’t resist making some smartass comment about what his fortune said. Which led to Charlie closing his hand over yours. “I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you,” he’d said and you just wanted to see him happy again, like “Cheer up, Charlie”, like Willy Wonka and the fucking Chocolate Factory.  
And that had somehow led to a crushed cookie in your hand and his lips on yours. “You’re such a better woman than she ever will be,” he’d muttered as his mouth made the journey across your jaw and down your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. And God, Charlie, please don’t say that. Say that again.   
Which led to his hand up your shirt and into your bra, his thumb rubbing at your nipple and you could feel his wedding ring against your skin and his tongue in your mouth.   
And it spiraled and it snowballed and he was already rock hard and thrusting up into your hand before you could even get his zipper all the way down. And pumping his cock was like giving him chest compressions, bringing him back from the dead.   
Charlie had stared at you blankly when you mentioned the word “condom”, like he couldn’t even remember what language it was, hadn’t had one around in years, check the box here that says “No new sexual partners in the last 12 months”. This was it. Your final chance to pull the brake and come to a complete stop.   
He was still wearing his wedding ring and technically (and legally) still married. But his fingers were shoved inside you and you couldn’t see the ring anymore. Couldn’t even feel it. “I’m sorry,” he’d choked, withdrawing his hand from between your spread legs.   
No. Absolutely not. You weren’t going to allow him to keep apologizing. To you, to Nicole, to Henry, to the rest of his family and your entire circle of friends. Letting him believe that everything wrong was his fault. “Come inside me then,” you’d almost sobbed. “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter, just… just feel something!”  
It was incredible really, how easily he’d slid into you. Incredible how ready you’d both seemed for each other. He was hard and you were so wet and you were both still Tetriminos. d gasped and clutched at your shoulder, at your breasts, whatever part of you he could reach as he bottomed out against your cervix.  
Of course, he still knew how to please a woman. Why wouldn’t he? And that soft Salvation Army sofa was sturdy enough to support you both, as you pressed your hips up into him, as his thrusts became deeper. As he pulled your legs up and wrapped them around his waist and you felt him drag against your g-spot.   
“Charlie,” you’d whispered, when you felt his thumb on your clit. “Oh my God.” Did he do this for her, you’d wondered. Take the time to make sure it was just as good for her? Let her have hers first? Twice?   
Another woman’s husband made you come harder than you’d ever had that night, had you clamping down tight around him, gushing over his cock and onto the sofa. Was it really just the forbidden nature of extramarital sex that was such a turn on? The inherent wrongness and disregard for morals that made it so much better?  
But there was nothing immoral in the way Charlie had slipped an arm under the small of your back and held you up as you shuddered against him. And the way his voice dropped a register (how was that possible?) as he said, “Oh, that’s it. God, that’s it, baby. Keep going.” was the purest sound you’d ever heard.   
This wasn’t just some drunken, grabby, one-night-stand. This was Charlie, your Charlie. The same Charlie that had sobbed like a baby when you’d presented him with a bouquet of rubber duckies instead of roses at his first real opening night. You’d damn-near knocked your drink all over the woman in front of you in your haste to give him the standing ovation he deserved.   
You were in his and Nicole’s wedding, with your Louboutin heels and fake eyelashes. You all wore so much makeup back then. The photos are ridiculous. “Incredibly humbled”, you’d said, to be able to witness the beginning of their journey together. Now, here you were at the end.   
But there was no death knell, no crack of thunder or swell of dramatic music. There was the sound of the street-sweeper outside, the sound of Charlie’s groan as he braced himself on the armrest behind your head and your surprised “Oh!” at the feel of him spilling into you. It had been a long time since unprotected sex had been on the menu for you, but you didn’t remember it ever feeling like that. Why had it never felt like that? Something about the look on Charlie’s face, how his jaw clenched and his lips silently formed the word “Fuck” as he just kept coming made you wonder if it had ever been like that for him either.   
Fucking fabulous. You’d become the Friends-to-Lovers trope, a lazy and cliché plot device. What’s more, you’d earned the title of The Other Woman, a homewrecker, traitor to your gender and breaker of the most scared oath of Chicks Before Dicks. You’d cried a bit on Charlie’s shoulder afterwards and he’d held you and insisted that “It’ll be okay. We’re all right.” You were hurting so many people. But whatever guilt there was, it wasn’t enough to keep you from falling into each other again only a few hours later. And then one more time right as the sun was coming up. By then, it was too late. You would start looking on Amazon for your scarlet A when you got back home.   
Now when he shows up on your doorstep, looking lost or frustrated, you still pull him inside and shut the door behind him. But instead of the usual hug, you sink to your knees in your entryway and blow him until his fingers are knotted in your hair, until his legs are shaking and you’ve swallowed down every last bit of hurt or resentment or fear from him. And he always helps pull you back up to your feet afterward. Takes out his handkerchief and wipes your mouth and chin. Then he kisses you gratefully. Always a gentleman.   
When Charlie invites you over for dinner on one of his Henry-nights, Henry presents you with a hand-made thank you card for the backpack and insists on showing you his latest yo-yo trick. You and Charlie both reflexively lunge for Henry’s glass of water as the yo-yo knocks it over. But while Charlie dashes to get a dishtowel to mop up the spill, you make sure to snatch your card out of the path of destruction. And insist that Henry finish the trick. The whole scene feels so domestic, so much like something out of family sitcom that you can almost hear the laugh track. You probably could if you weren’t already laughing along with it.   
You no longer worried about falling asleep on the sofa. When you did, you’d awaken to a hand on your knee or on your face and Charlie’s voice softly urging you to “Come on. Come to bed.” Though he’d seldom let you go back to sleep right away. The bed was so much softer than the sofa, so much wider and with countless more possibilities. And he seemed determined to prove all the different ways in which he could still please a woman.   
Somehow, you weren’t all that shocked to discover a new toothbrush and coordinating rubber ducky next to his sink one morning or how his refrigerator always seemed to have your favorite brand of juice in it now. The wedding ring was suddenly gone and neither of you commented on its absence. “Body wash?????” Charlie’s frantic, Tuesday evening text message read. “Makes you smell like citrus. Orangey. WHAT IS IT?” It was followed by a photo of the entire drugstore aisle.   
***  
You don’t really have a plan or a destination in mind as you stalk down the courthouse hallways. No clue where you’re going. But it’s a storage room, where you finally do end up, bankers boxes stacked high on shelves around you. And you hope Charlie’s isn’t worried about how many other seedy encounters had happened there. But he’s got your leg pushed up and the rest of your body pinned against the wall. His mouth hasn’t left your neck, sucking hard at your pulse point as he hits every spot inside you. You assume his mind is focused on the tasks at hand and not thinking about the room’s previous occupants. Focused and detail oriented.   
***  
“That shade does look pretty good on you.” You smile as you watch him rub at his mouth with one hand, while trying to hold up his pants with the other. “Here, let me,” you offer. He leans down and you wipe off the Magnolia Bloom smear from his chin. You finish buttoning your sweater all the way while Charlie straightens his tie. “Shit,” he says as he pulls your collar up. “I totally got carried away.” He rubs his finger over the spot on your neck and you can feel how tender it is already. “I’m sorry.”  
“Fix your hair,” you remind him, ignoring the apology. “No, in the back. It’s sticking up.” He smooths his hands over it and looks at you questioningly. “Better,” you nod. No one would be able to tell if it had been his own hand or one of yours in there anyway.  
You’re not too worried about your own appearance, figuring you can shower when you get home. It’s not far to the subway. You’ll just take tiny steps and keep your legs together on the train. You probably won’t even be the only person on board with sex-hair and a conspicuous hickey. “You should probably leave first,” you tell Charlie as you eye the locked door behind him. “Just in case someone is walking by. That way, it doesn’t look too obvious”   
You take a step closer to him, reach up and smooth the lapels of his jacket. “Charlie, go,” you urge as you push lightly against his chest. “You can’t be late getting back.” His eyes are almost black in the dim light as he glances around the room, full of frustration and longing, with hints of post-coital bliss still there. He’s so beautiful and you think you’d marry him right this minute, in this same courthouse, if he asked. If he could.   
He really should leave, but neither of you move. Charlie grabs your hand from his chest, lacing his fingers between yours. He presses his lips together and frowns briefly before looking back down at you. “It’s Rainbath,” he says.  
“What?” Irritation more than confusion colors your tone. The judge is going to call court in session and he’s not going to be there. What the hell is he doing?  
“The soap, the body wash,” Charlie continues, waving his free hand impatiently “You’ve always used it. It’s the same kind. Even back in school. The same smell.”  
“Citrus,” you whisper, as he leans in closer and presses his forehead to yours. You’re shaking now, the kind you get when you have the flu, the kind that are so bad, they make your whole body hurt. He has you absolutely scared to death and all you can do is hang on tight. Dammit, you’re wrinkling his jacket.   
“You know you’ve got me, right?” Charlie’s voice drops into that lower register again and you feel his breath fan out against your cheek. “You know that? When all of this is settled and over, I just want…” He pauses and frowns. You can feel the little crease between his brows as his lips brush yours. “Can we keep each other?” You think of My Fair Lady, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face. And the shaking stops.  
You smile to yourself as you notice the empty bench by the courtroom doors. You’re glad you packed that extra banana with lunch. Potassium. It’ll help keep his blood pressure down. Maybe you’ll dig out the cast-iron skillet tonight and actually cook dinner. Your grandma’s old biscuits and gravy recipe? That certainly wouldn’t do anything for Charlie’s blood pressure. But things are always easier discussed, and confessed, over a home cooked meal. And maybe you’ll redo your nails anyway. Nothing wrong with having pretty hands.   
On your way out, you pass by Nicole and her entourage again. Looks like no one is going to be late. You hold your head up high this time too. For the briefest of moments, the two of you lock eyes and something passes between you. She was the one that had picked out your gorgeous dove-grey bridesmaid dress. Had bought you a gigantic, glittery dildo and an equally gigantic bottle of vodka after your last nasty break-up. You remember how she had handed over Henry to you and allowed you to hold him when he was only a few hours old.   
She makes her way back to the courtroom to continue dismantling her family. And you make your way to the bank of elevators, her husband’s cum drying on your thighs. Neither of you is the real villain here. All bad guys have their stories. So, too, do better women.


	2. No More the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is endless, but full of so many beginnings. Neither of you can stop the sun from still rising in the morning. Nor can you stop the combustion that's already happened. Is there any sense left in trying to contain the reaction once it's been set off?

It takes only minimal effort to sit back up on the too-soft sofa, but even then, you wince at the release of fluids from between your legs. You’d honestly forgotten how messy unprotected sex was and figure you’re going to end up owing Charlie a new set of living room furniture before too much longer if you keep this up. You are not going to keep this up.  
You carelessly pull your shirt and panties back on. With the post-orgasm haze wearing off, you’re able to clearly ask yourself the question “What the fuck have I done?” followed by the mantra “Shitshitshitshit!” You’d almost forgotten that Charlie was even still in the room until you feel the cushion dip as he sits next to you.  
“Don’t do that,” he says softly as he pulls your hand away from your mouth. “Wha..?” You blink back at him. “Your fingernails,” he reminds you. “You bite them when you get nervous. Are you okay?” The concerned frown, the little crease between his eyebrows is almost too much for you and you look back down at your hands in your lap. They blur and wobble, but no way in hell are you going to blink. You sniff and hastily swipe at your cheeks.  
“Are you….?” Charlie’s voice fades as he answers his own question. You hear him sigh he as pulls you to him. “Oh, baby! Don’t cry!” he says, as he pets your hair. And something about how he says the word “Baby” makes you cry harder. It’s tender and concerned. Completely different from the “Baby” he used earlier while he was fucking your brains out, but somehow even more intimate.   
“It’ll be okay,” Charlie soothes, his fingers still in your hair. “We’ll be all right, I promise.” We, he says. Are you a “We” now? Is that what just happened? He still smells like laundry detergent, Gain or All or Bounce. One of those one-syllable things with tough stain-fighting action. And it feels really, really good to just keep still and lean against him. To be supported instead of the one providing all the support yourself. To just breathe.   
Charlie kisses the top of your head and lets you sit back up. “Did you want to just stay here tonight?” he asks. You groan as you stretch across the sofa to the end table. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what time it is.” Grabbing your phone, you look at the screen before swearing and dropping it back on the table. “Fuck! It’s like, 1:00. Guess I will stay.”  
“You have tomorrow off though, right?” Charlie asks as he stands and stretches. You nod, rising to your own feet and feeling another rush of liquid soak through your underwear as you do. Goddamn, how much did he come inside you? Of course, he sees the surprised look on your face and the slight shift in your hips and catches on immediately.   
“Why don’t you go shower?” Charlie asks, inclining his head toward the hallway and the bathroom. You watch as he bends to pick up your discarded pants and bra off the floor. “If you leave the rest of your clothes out,” he offers. “I’ll throw them in the wash tonight.” He sounds like such a dad; you think and your heart drops at the thought of Henry. What’s going to happen if he finds out about all this?  
“Towels are in the closet,” Charlie reminds you as you pad off toward the bathroom. You know where the towels are. It wasn’t that long ago that you helped unpack them and put them away. His voice follows you down the hallway. “Do you want me to plug your phone in?”  
“Yes, please!” you answer back. You have a horrible habit of forgetting to charge you phone at night and letting the battery get down to 1% before seeking an outlet to plug into. It tends to freak your friends out more that it does you.  
In the bathroom, you take off your dirty clothes and put them in the sink and turn the shower on as hot as you can get it. Nothing helps clear your mind like a scalding shower… at least until the hot water runs out.   
Charlie’s new apartment is nice, really. Definitely not as luxurious as the prewar building he had shared with Nicole and Henry, but not a single-dad slum either. Why does the wife always get the house? But even two bedrooms in Washington Heights still only gets you a tiny bathroom and pedestal sink.  
The unfamiliar shower (and shower smells) remind you of childhood sleepovers. Now that the fun part is over, how difficult will it be to sleep? One-part excitement and one-part homesickness. Even over the sound of the water, you hear the door open. “Clean clothes!” Charlie announces loudly, which earns him the immediate response of “Thank you, Clothes!” Old theater habits die hard.   
The clothes turn out to be an enormous t-shirt and a pair of boxers that, even with the shirt bunched and tucked in, threaten to slip off. And you find yourself holding onto the waistband as you wander back into the living room, vaguely assuming that you’ll sleep on the couch.  
Instead of the pillows and blankets you were halfway expecting, you’re greeted by the sight of Charlie holding out a mug to you and a clean towel covering the “wet spot” next to him. “I made hot chocolate,” he offers. This whole situation would be a hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t so freaking handsome.  
“You’re sweet,” you mutter as you take the mug from him and sit. “How did you get to be so sweet?” Under your teasing tone is a genuinely real question. He’s such a good guy. Neither one of you probably deserve him. Next to you, Charlie shrugs. “Probably learned it in college.”   
‘Real subtle, Asshole,’ you think as you sip your drink and smile into the marshmallows. “By the way,” Charlie’s voice breaks the silence, “I think I should tell you, you look incredibly sexy right now.” You look up at him as you wipe the marshmallow mustache off your lip. Didn’t you just have sex? “I’m totally serious,” he continues. “With your damp hair and rosy cheeks. And you’re sitting here, in my living room, wearing my clothes. You look like a dream or like a really great fantasy.” He shakes his head and any hope of “A one-time thing” or “It won’t happen again” flies out the window. For the second time that night, Charlie leans over and kisses you on the sofa. And your stomach swoops like a twelve-year-old.  
It's so bizarre that he can just do this. In addition to all the Best Guy Friend rights and privileges, this is a thing that just exists between you now. Not that he could so much as hold your hand in public, but here? He could fuck you against the front door if he wanted to, before his high-power lawyers arrived for their next meeting and no one would know. The thought makes you giddy and you stifle a giggle against him.   
Charlie pulls back and looks at you questioningly and you shake your head and mouth the words “I’m fine” at him. Then you reach up, curling a lock of his hair around your finger. Oh, yeah. It is as soft as it looks. “Something I’ve always wondered about,” you explain, but stop short at how his eyes drift closed. “Keep going,” he sighs. “Please?”  
You spread your fingers and drag them through a section of hair. It’s only slightly tangled and you gently pull the knot apart. Your hot chocolate is still warm but you set it on the coffee table. Your attention is needed elsewhere. ‘You can do this now,’ you remind yourself as you push your fingers into Charlie’s soft hair. You scratch your nails up his scalp and continue to work your way through his entire head, gently pulling apart the tangles as you find them. You watch as the built-up static makes his hair puff out at the ends, you smooth your thumbs over his forehead, and tuck his hair behind his ears. Somehow, it’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with anyone.  
Charlie opens his eyes and you can’t help smiling at him. You were convinced you were going to put him to sleep if you carried on much longer. He pushes the coffee table away with his foot and kneels on the floor in front of you. “I really want to taste your pussy right now,” he says simply. “For fuck’s, Charlie!” you snap. “You can’t just say things like that!” He’s lucky you didn’t accidentally knee him in the face and break his nose. Good God! But he nuzzles against you and kisses the inside of your thigh. Instinctively, your hands go to the top of his head and your legs drift open for him. “Okay, but can I do it?” Charlie asks, looking up at you.   
And you look back at his enormous brown eyes and full lips. And you think about how it feels to kiss him, how warm and wet his tongue is. Maybe you should be crying again at how horrible this whole situation is instead of your heart pounding and moisture already seeping from you. Fuck, you want him. You do. So much more than you want to be a “good person” or “respect boundaries”. You’re selfish and awful and you need his mouth on you. “Please?” you whisper as Charlie continues pressing sloppy kisses up your thighs, sucking spots on the tender flesh.   
Quite suddenly, he reaches behind your knees and tugs you forward so your ass is almost hanging off the edge of the cushion. But instead of dragging his too -big boxer shorts down your legs, he pulls the fabric in the crotch aside and you twitch as you feel the cool air of the living room on you. And you feel like maybe he’s staring just a bit too long and you should probably schedule your next waxing soon.  
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Charlie sighs as he glances back up at you. “This is absolutely the hottest cunt I’ve ever laid eyes on, (Y/N).” Who the hell taught him to talk like this? Surely not Her. While Nicole could cut loose and get crazy with the right crowd (or the right drinks), it had been a long time since you’d seen her show any emotion around her husband other than vague annoyance.   
He continues staring and you gasp loudly and jump as you feel him run his thumb gently up your slit. “Is this what I’ve been missing out on all these years?” He sounds almost offended and you wonder how to answer that question? What does the truth even look like and why should it have the power to completely rewrite your past?  
“And do you always get this wet?” Charlie asks as his thumb catches the drop of liquid seeping out of you. He pushes it back up between your lips and begins slowly circling your clit. “Or is all of this just for me?” You shake your head. “No, it’s all you,” you assure him. “This is what you do to me now.” It’s true that you can get pretty soggy even during normal circumstances, but tonight is definitely more intense than usual. The look in Charlie’s eyes as he glances down at his hand then back up to your face is full of longing and regret and lust and of course you can tell all that just by looking at him. This isn’t just some schmo off the street. It’s fucking Charlie!  
You gasp again and whimper as you feel his lips on you, arching your back and pushing yourself into his face. You’re sure you look like a complete whore right now, spread out across the sofa like this, while he kneels between your legs. It really must be a spectacular sight and you’re almost jealous that you can’t see it for yourself. But you’ll content yourself with the view from here, looking down your chest and belly (in his shirt) to the top of his head, watching his hair brush against your thighs.   
He places open-mouthed kisses up one side of your labia and down the other. You feel his lips part as the tip of his tongue runs lightly over your fourchette, teasing the delicate notch of skin. Just the barest hint of penetration. He must hear the way your breath catches and he pauses, waiting. His tongue is warm and ridiculously soft and this sofa is your new favorite place in the world. Your fingers settle on his temple while your thumb swipes across his forehead. “Charlie, please don’t stop,” you whisper, in a voice that doesn’t sound like your own at all.   
He gently licks his way into each nook and cranny, runs his tongue slowly up and down your folds and pauses to suck softly on your lips. The slurpy, squishy sounds coming from between your legs seem loud enough to wake the neighbors as Charlie literally makes out with your cunt. Knowing that he’s enjoying this as much as you are is an unbelievable turn-on.   
You trace the line of his part with your thumb, before sinking your fingers into his hair, running them through the strands and pushing them back from his forehead like you’d done earlier. He’s so freaking beautiful though! Being able to see more of his face definitely improves the already-stellar view. And helps drive home the reality that all of this is actually happening and it’s not some fever-induced wet dream. You’re not going to wake up in the morning, asking yourself “Really? A Charlie sex dream?!”   
You want to watch him as much as you want to feel him. Commit every moment of this night to memory. This living room, this married friend who belongs, part and parcel, to you now. But you can’t help how your eyes drift closed and your head falls back against the sofa. And you’re so grateful that, from his vantage point, Charlie can’t see the way your face pinches and how your lips unthinkingly form the words, “God, I love you.”   
He’s abandoned keeping your shorts pulled aside in favor of having both hands on you. It would seem that you’re not the only one enjoying the view tonight. You feel Charlie part your lips and run his thumbs up your dripping folds, which are coated with his spit and your own juices. “So. Fucking. Wet!” he marvels quietly, more to himself than to you. He leans back in to resume his earlier work, his tongue continuing to probe every crevice of your cunt. His thumb finally settles on your clit, applying a slight but direct pressure for a few moments before he begins tracing tight circles around the painfully swollen nub. He’s humming into you now, the vibrations shaking you to your core. And when Charlie’s tongue passes over the insanely sensitive spot that you imagine must be your urethral opening, it’s all you can do not to burst into tears. Who actually does that?!   
Then, oh Jesus! Oh God! Holy Mary, mother of after-school catechism, that’s his tongue! In your vagina. Like, all the way in. You clamp your hands over your mouth to keep from screaming out loud. This is absolutely the most horrific and most divine thing you’ve ever felt in your life.   
He thrusts into you, setting a relaxed pace and you squirm against him. His thumb is now working your clit steadily as his tongue continues its ministrations within you. It’s hard to relax though, to let him do all the dirty work and just lie there on the receiving end. Hard not to seize handfuls of his hair and just ride his face into oblivion. But you can’t keep your hands from convulsing, fingers twining tightly into his hair as his tongue finally finds your clit.   
Up until now, you’ve kept relatively quiet, limiting yourself to squeaky breaths and breathy whimpers. He pauses when you moan the words, “Goddammit, Charlie!” Stops briefly, but his mouth is still on you and you can feel him smile. That precious, goofy smile. It makes your chest hurt and legs shake. You open your eyes as Charlie raises his head just enough to look up at you. His brown puppy-dog eyes are over bright, questioning and reassuring at the same time. And all you can do, all you really need to do, is smile back. And he goes back to work.   
His tongue continues working your clit, occasionally dipping back into you. Either just breaching your entrance or so deep you can feel his chin gouging at your perineum. This is not a man that eats pussy because he feels obligated to do it, or even because he knows how much his partner will enjoy it. Charlie is an absolute pussy connoisseur.   
He latches his lips onto your clit and sucks in earnest. He keeps this up for several minutes, alternating between the hard sucking and gently flicking your clitoris with his tongue, soothing it before working it up again until you’re moaning loudly, almost sobbing with pleasure. Charlie must realize how quickly you’re falling apart and he pulls back again and looks into your eyes, licking at his lower lip, not wanting anything to go to waste. “Still okay?” he asks as he runs his hands over your thighs. You barely manage to croak out a “Yes!” before he pushes your legs further apart, winds his arms around them and dives back in, practically stabbing his tongue into your cunt. Your hands slip over to the back of his head, but you really don’t need to worry about holding him in place at this point. Not with his arms all the way around you and fingers digging into your hipbones.   
The feeling of his hair swinging against your thighs is almost more overwhelming than the feeling of him tongue fucking you hard and fast. Everything is overwhelming. The swirling, spreading beginnings of your orgasm are gathering, condensing into a tighter and tighter knot as your body tenses. Charlie covers almost your entire vulva with his mouth, sucks hard on your clit and   
You can get messy sometimes and have probably already ruined his sofa, and maybe now is the time to say something because he’s got you so, so close. Too close. It’s too late and you can’t unclench your fingers from his hair and the only sound you’re able to make is a feeble “Ch….. Ch…” as you struggle to even say his name. But Charlie has no intention of letting you go, his arms hooked around your legs, holding you against him. He keeps his mouth sealed tight on you throughout your orgasm, his tongue lapping rhythmically inside you as your walls clench around him. Even over the sound of your rapid and uneven breaths, you can hear him swallow. And swallow again as he literally drinks you down. And that, right there, is almost enough to make you come again. He doesn’t drown in your pussy, he devours it.  
Even as your orgasm fades, Charlie continues to slowly circle the tip of his tongue around your clit, like he’s reluctant to stop touching you. And when the last of the tremors has subsided, he sits back on his heels. His hair is completely destroyed, his eyes are wide and his lips swollen. “Okay, so that was the hottest thi….”   
“Kiss me!” you interrupt, grabbing his shirt and yanking his face to yours. You have no idea why, but tasting yourself in Charlie’s mouth right now is the most important thing you’ll ever do. And though you love the feel of his lips against yours and his tongue in your mouth, you realize that, once again, erotica and porn have been lying to you. “Pussy Juice” is not sweet at all. Not like nectar or honey or any of the weird epithets. It’s kind of salty, kind of musky and just a bit metallic. And maybe that’s normal, who knows? “Who knows?”… who fucking cares?! It’s you! And it’s him. And it almost feels like this was always supposed to happen. But that’s such a dangerous path to go down. For both of you.  
“Holy shit, (Y/N),” Charlie pants, his forehead leaned against yours. Maybe you’ll just sleep on the floor tonight, you think. You probably won’t be able to move anyway. At least you still have clothes on. But your second favorite R-word pops into your head (right behind “Read-through”). Reciprocity. You can’t leave your best friend hanging like that. Not after he’s just eaten you out to absolute perfection. “What do you need me to do?” you ask as you slide down on to the floor in front of him.   
“Hmm?” he asks distractedly as he shuffles back on his knees and slips a hand into his pajama pants. “Not a whole lot.” Oh, he makes you want to be filthy. You feel like you want to do things to him that don’t even exist yet. That no one’s ever done with anybody.   
“Can I watch?” Charlie looks up, surprised and a little doubtful. The movement of his hand slows beneath his pants. “Really?” You nod enthusiastically, somehow beyond aroused at the thought of actually watching him come.   
“I want to see,” you explain, not seductive or giggly and girlish. Just honest. “I want to see what it looks like when you come. What it actually looks like… the money shot, so to speak.” You shrug. “I know it probably sounds weird as hell, but I really want to watch it… come out of you.”   
Charlie huffs out a breath and allows his chin to drop onto his chest. “You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, working the waistband of his pants down his hips. There hadn’t been time for admiration earlier when your only thought was to get him inside you as quickly as possible.   
Dicks are dicks. Dicks have always been dicks. They’re just… dicks. They can do amazing things and have an endless array of shapes, colors and textures. But you firmly believe that all dicks are created equal. And it’s a bit of a surprise to realize that love really must be must be blind even when it comes to genitalia, because Charlie’s dick is movie-star handsome. Charlie’s dick ought to be in pictures.  
You watch as he spits into his palm and wraps his fingers around himself. His saliva combined with the precum that had been accumulating for who knows how long, provides enough lubrication that he’s able to begin jerking himself quickly.  
A quick glance up into his face tells you that this is still the same old Charlie. Same dark hair -the tips of his ears are starting to turn red, like they do when he gets excited. Same beauty marks. Same full lips. You can see the tip of his tongue protruding as he frowns in concentration (Jesus, that tongue!). It stands to reason that this is his hand, furiously working his cock.  
And that….? That is definitely your own hand, as it reaches out and runs a single finger over the head, tracing his slit where more moisture is forming. You drag your fingertip around the corona, marveling at its smoothness and deep pink color and fuck, you’ve got to get that thing into your mouth soon.  
But now is not the time. As Charlie increases his speed and begins thrusting his hips into his hand, you realize how close he is and that shit’s about to get real! And it’s no longer enough just to watch and you wrap your fingers around his. He groans and clutches at your shoulder with his free hand. The position is uncomfortable and the angle totally awkward, but neither of you seem to care.   
You feel Charlie’s fingers tighten on your shoulder, digging in enough to bruise. And you don’t care about anything else. Nothing. You don’t care about who you may be hurting or how horribly this could complicate things or what either of you is going to think in the morning. You just know how much you want him. Somewhere, in the apartment, your phone is plugged in and charging, what time even is it? Maybe you’ll never know and you’ll just fuck each other all night long and you’re so goddamn in love with this man, you can’t even see straight!   
Together, with your hand wrapped around his, you bring him off. Charlie gasps and you swear you can feel his cock pulsing even through his fingers. “Oh fuck, (Y/N). Oh fuck!” He comes in quick spurts, spilling over his hand and yours and dripping onto the rug. He jerks himself a few more times and you keep watching as he milks himself of every drop.   
Charlie releases your shoulder and slumps over, sitting on the floor. His dick softening and he takes a shuddering breath. And smiles. You, however, are preoccupied with examining your fingers, rubbing them together and enjoying the stickiness and even the smell of his seed.   
Like a dirty slut, you push two fingers into your mouth and begin sucking Charlie’s cum off them. Oh, you are so sexy! You little minx! But you don’t feel like a minx at all. Or like a dirty slut. You feel like an idiot. Now what? Charlie blinks. You stare back at him helplessly, with your fingers still shoved in your mouth. Charlie frowns, waiting You try to choke back the giggle, but it’s too late. You snort and splutter and spit out the fingers as you laugh. “Oh my God, I don’t know what I was going for there at all!” you wipe your hand on your shirt and roll your eyes.   
Charlie finishes pulling his pants back up and stares at you. He’s pressing his lips together and breathing hard through his nose. “Didn’t really think that one through, did you?” he asks, coolly. Even though you can tell his composure is slipping.   
“I took a risk and it didn’t pay off,” you shrug. “I can live with that.”   
“On the other hand,” Charlie’s voice cracks as he rubs his forehead and leans against his palm. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen such a magnificent semen-take.”  
Oh lord, did he just say ‘Semen-take’? “Clearly, you are not watching the right type of porn, then!” you giggle and it is over.  
You’re both roaring, your laughter filling the room and bouncing off the walls. As you wipe at your eyes, the biggest cliché of the night pops into your head. How this feels just like old times. And it does. It feels amazing. Like grouchy directors and rehearsals that would run too long and dissolve into punch-drunk giggling fits. How the look on Charlie’s went from proud to horrified when you took your first Jaeger Bomb. And promptly threw it up (“It tastes like battery acid!”). Back then, you were notorious for falling asleep in the booth rather than on other people’s sofas. All of this feels comfortable and it’s normal, but now with an added connection that’s going to be very, very hard to let go of when (if?) you have to.  
“Jesus, you’re nuts,” Charlie laments as he stands and holds his hands out to you. “I’m sleepy!” you counter, leaning into him. “My brain isn’t working.” He’s not as soft as the couch, but warmer and infinitely more comforting. The events of the last few hours suddenly seem like lifetimes ago and the heightened emotions and multiple orgasms are catching up to you. But even as you’re melting, Charlie has an arm around your shoulders, holding you up.   
“Let’s go to bed, then,” he suggests, easy as pie as he leads you down the hall. All right, so “Bed” bed. Not the sofa after all. How is it that falling asleep in a bed next to someone is so much more intimate, so much more passionate than boning the hell out of them in the living room?  
“I even…” Charlie sighs and looks almost guilty as he smooths his hands over his tangled hair. “I changed the sheets. While you were in the shower.” You run your hand over the clean sheet as you sit on the edge of the bed. It smells like the same laundry detergent and is ridiculously soft. 400 thread count at least. “Thank you.” You smile at him. Clean sheets and your favorite Charlie. How in the world could you have thought about sleeping anywhere else?   
He leaves you sitting on the bed while he runs to move your dirty clothes to the dryer. You stretch out and roll over. This bed is so much bigger than yours at home. You could sleep smack in the middle and not have to worry about your uncovered toes freezing in the middle of the night. What luxury!  
You also know that Henry likes to climb into bed with his parents when he’s having a rough night or just in need of some extra snuggles. It’s sweet to imagine him cuddled up to Charlie in this enormous bed. Henry really is a fantastic kid and you love him to pieces. If you’re still there in the morning (looking like you just dropped by, of course), you can’t wait to see what he thinks about the backpack you got him.  
Charlie comes back into the room, rubbing his eyes, but stops when he sees you on the bed. “How come I never knew you sleep on that side?” he asks. You kick the covers off your legs. “I don’t see how you could know,” you tell him. This is the first time that you’ve slept together and “slept together”. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal,” you continue. “I can totally move.”  
“You should stay,” he insists, turning off the lamp and stretching out beside you. “It can be your spot now.” But even in your own designated spot, it still feels strange. Curled into a ball and facing the wrong direction. Through the wall, you can hear the muffled sounds of the dryer and Charlie breathing behind you. And just like the old sleepovers, it seems to take forever for exhaustion to override the anxiety and homesickness.   
As you finally reach the marvelous, just-before-sleep place, you roll over into the proper sleeping position. And whack your knees on something hard and unyielding. You hear Charlie draw a sharp breath and immediately feel guilty. “Shit! I’m sorry!” you apologize, reaching for him and whatever body part you managed to smash into. “I’m really not used to sharing a bed,” you explain. “I’m used to sprawling in the middle.”  
“Here, hold on a second.” In the dim light, you watch Charlie adjust his pillow and the blankets covering you. “Come here?” he asks as he holds out his arms. You move closer and he wraps his arms around you, rolling you both over so your head is resting on his chest. “There,” he says when you’re both settled. “Better? Now you can’t sprawl. Just stay here with me instead.”  
Your legs are tangled together, his heart is beating way too fast and the waistband on your enormous boxer shorts is twisted. If there was anything left of the “Just Friends” or even the “Friends with Benefits” barrier between you, he just pulled it down.  
“Better,” you answer.  
And he tucks his chin over the top of your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spirit is willing (Ask you doctor if constant Charlie-Thirst is right for you), but the imbalanced, drug addled brain is weak. Still and all, a new chapter is always cause for celebration.


	3. Bookends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still recovering from their courthouse encounter, Charlie and Reader revel in the outcome and in each other. And, even if there is no going back for either of them, there are things that will remain static and unchanged. Things that they can still find support and solace in.

Your grandmother would be so proud of how your biscuits and gravy turned out! You can hear her voice in your head, saying “You did good, kid.” She would not be proud, however, of the way you so shamelessly throw yourself at a man the moment he walks in your door. A married man, no less! Hussy, she would have called you. Trollop!  
You at least have the presence of mind to greet him in the hallway with a friendly arm-pat and an exclamation of “Hey! What’s up? Come on in!” Your neighbors will never suspect a thing. Except you’re way too loud and sound like a frat boy in a poorly acted beer commercial. Dammit, just close the fucking door, Charlie!  
You yank your parasol-printed lunch box out of his hand and throw it aside so he’ll have at least one free hand before you pull him down, bringing his lips to meet yours. You can wrinkle the hell out of his jacket now if you want. His nose is cold, but the inside of his mouth is so warm and you could stand here in the middle of your entry and kiss him all night. Then send him back to court tomorrow with swollen lips, tangled hair and bruises that peek out even over the color or his dress shirt. God, he’s really fucking yours now, isn’t he?  
“How’s Henry?” you ask, breathlessly as you let go. You know that Charlie had planned to spend most of the evening with his son. Oh, you worry about that boy. You probably worry way too much.  
“He’s okay,” Charlie drops his bag by the door and drapes his jacket over it. “I just had to do the ice cream thing with him. I’d promised. And there’s this new flavor, some raspberry something that he’s been losing his mind over.”  
You smile at the picture of them sitting together, Charlie listening intently while Henry offers his critique over this latest flavor. As a general rule, all kids love ice cream. But to Henry, it is very, very serious business. Even more serious than dinosaurs. The kid is an ice cream zealot.  
“You know what he said to me tonight?” Charlie asks and then plows on without waiting for an answer. “He said he’ll be relieved when this whole thing is over. He’s just wants everyone to be happy again. Not that he ‘wants Mommy and Daddy to be together again’. Just everyone happy.”  
“He’s a sharp kid, that one.”  
“Yeah, I don’t know where he gets that from,” Charlie says as he follows you into the kitchen. You hadn’t really felt like you had time to cook a huge meal like your grandma would have (throwing fried okra and a peach cobbler into the mix). But with the sausage in the gravy and the addition of green beans, it definitely feels like a real meal. Like comfort food, but without being too horrifically unhealthy. Which, you suppose, isn’t really comforting at all.  
“Something smells really good in here,” Charlie comments as he pulls out the chairs from the table you have wedged against the wall. The “Loft-like” feel of the apartment had sounded promising when you first moved in, but with no real distinction between the main rooms, there’s not as much flow as there is everything everywhere.  
You stand on your toes to pull plates from the cabinet over the sink. “It’s me,” you confess, facetiously. “I smell good.”  
“I believe it.” Charlie nudges you with his hip as he passes you on his way to get silverware. But you don’t smell like gravy. You smell like Rainbath, like citrus. Like ancient friendships when they explode into something else.  
Charlie goggles at the plate as you set it down on the table. How long has it been since he’s had an actual home-cooked meal? “How did I get so lucky to get lunch and dinner from you today?” he asks, picking up his fork. And you can only smile and shift in your chair. The Strong, Independent Woman part of your brain is screaming in protest, but the bustling housewife vision that pops into your head makes your heart swell. And your pussy clench. He’s your man and you provide for him. Oh Jesus, you need to stop this right now.  
“Sorry about my embarrassing lunch box today.” Subject changed. Crisis averted. Now you won’t be asking anyone to bend you over the table and… you interrupt your own thoughts to make a mental note to retrieve the lunchbox off the floor of the entry so you can wipe it out tonight. “My inner child won’t allow me to buy anything practical or high quality, when I can get something pretty instead,” you continue. Does Charlie know that your full time, take-to-work-every day lunch box is pink with swans on it?  
He shakes his head. “I don’t care. You brought me food... and then some.” He huffs out a breath and you waggle your eyebrows suggestively at him. That was definitely one for the memory books, but it still seems unreal that it happened.  
“How’s your neck? Charlie asks seriously, plunking his elbows on the table and craning his own neck, trying to see whatever damage he’d done to you earlier. And that part had definitely happened. You reminded yourself over and over as you stared into the bathroom mirror after you’d gotten home.  
“Oh, it’s fine,” you answer. “Don’t even worry about it.” But you see him wince as you pull your collar aside to reveal the crimson and purple bruise at the base of your neck. “Scarves, Charlie. And Save room,” you interrupt yourself. “There is dessert.”  
“Your kitchen is so tiny,” Charlie comments as he watches you stack the dirty plates in the sink and retrieve the pie from the refrigerator (Sorry, Grandma!) “Can I help?”  
“No, I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” You pull the ice cream from the freezer. “And it only feels tiny because you’re nine feet tall,” you continue. “It’s just me and Pablo anyway.” Pablo is your beloved house plant who presides over everything from the top of your bookcase. “We don’t need that much room.” Charlie pokes at his slice of pie, watching the ice cream melt into the cherries, creating an unmistakable shade of Pepto-Bismol Pink.  
“So, you’re not ever going to leave?” he asks. “Even if something better came along?” And you laugh out loud. Your place may be tiny, but it’s close to shops and restaurants, as cliché as that sounds. The commute to work is tolerable and, given the location, the rent is not too astronomical.  
“Are you kidding?” you giggle. “You know how lucky I was to find this place? No way,” you shake your head resolutely. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot to get me out that door.”  
Charlie pushes the uneaten remainder of his pie around on his plate and you note that he seems especially moody tonight. Wistful? “Sometimes, I think that I wouldn’t mind moving to the suburbs and just commuting every day,” he says. “Nicole’s staying in LA, so we’re just selling the place in Chelsea.” He sighs deeply. “I want to be able to ‘settle’ somewhere. For Henry too, you know?”  
You nod knowingly. “You may have a point about the commute.” Getting to and from work every day has never been really pleasant and more and more lately, you find yourself multitasking on the train. Plus, it’s much easier to ignore other passengers and make yourself look unapproachable when you’re listening to music and writing progress reports. “It is pretty up there,” you add. “Kensington.”  
“Just a white picket fence or something,” Charlie goes on. “The treehouse in the backyard and room for barbecues. And school bake sales and leaf piles and swim lessons. I don’t think it’s that unreasonable.” He paints an idyllic picture, but you wonder why he sounds like he needs to justify every part of it. “I want to be able to provide all that for Henry too.”  
And your heart sinks. There’s the clencher. “Henry would be thrilled to live in a burned- out car if he had you there with him.” You shake your head. “But I get what you’re saying. Feeling like you have to prove something to everyone. Doing it for them and not for you and your kid. I hate that you’re going through all this. I really do.” You can’t imagine what it must be like to be living under a microscope like that. And the fact anyone would require him to prove anything in the first place? Would somehow question if he’s a good father on not? It’s the most frustrating and unjust thing you’ve ever heard.  
Charlie reaches across the table and grabs your hand. You let him. His lips are about to form the words “Thank you” but he peers closer, turns your hand over in the light. “You redid your nails.” It seems to please him beyond all reason and you’re not sure if it’s your choice of color that has him excited or the fact that he noticed your nails at all. And though it’s ridiculously endearing, you can’t pass up the opportunity to tease him just a bit.  
“Weirdo,” you whisper as you roll your eyes and lace your fingers between his.  
“What?!”  
You heave a dramatic but playful sigh. “Charlie. Guys aren’t supposed to notice when a woman changes the color of her nail polish. Or her lipstick. It’s in the handbook, The Bro Code. Didn’t you receive your copy?”  
Charlie scoffs. “I guess not, because I do notice. Maybe just because it’s you.” He rubs his thumb across yours and his touch is enough to give you goosebumps. “I always thought you had pretty hands.” He shrugs, adorably defensive about his hand observations and you grin like Christmas morning at him.  
“These old things?” you ask. “No way. Too much violin as a kid.” But you look down at your joined hands on the table and the sight makes your heart jump into your throat just a little. The polish is a nice color and your fingers do seem to fit between his rather perfectly. Maybe with the right bit of “ornamentation” (dare you dream?!), one might even call them pretty.  
Later, when the dishwasher is humming and after you’ve recruited Charlie to help you pick out a scarf for the next day, you stand in the entry and kiss him and kiss him. The way he sucks on your bottom lip is anything but chaste, but you both know that court and work will reconvene in the morning and that a night of nonstop passionate sex is simply not in the cards. Still, you don’t want him to go and you find yourself wondering what you’ll do if you have a scary dream. If you wake up and he’s not there. How the sleepover anxiety tables have turned.  
The longer you stay like that, the harder it gets to let go. But you draw back in surprise as Charlie sighs the words “I love you” against your mouth. Definitely not the first time you’ve heard the L-Word from him. In the past, the phrase “Love you” had been thrown around liberally, usually shouted drunkenly as someone or the other was being loaded into the back of a taxi, often followed by an even louder “Be safe!!” or sometimes tacked on as a precursor to “… but that’s a really bad idea.”  
More recently, it had been accompanied by a quick kiss on the cheek or a hand squeeze before big events (opening nights, weddings), heartfelt, but completely platonic. But this time, there is so much emotion conveyed in three monosyllabic words that it makes your head spin. You step back, hand over your mouth and can only star back at him with wide eyes. If you’d been wearing pearls, you’d be clutching the fuck out of them. Is this a big deal? Because it feels like a big deal.  
And Charlie gives you “that” look, one that you’re all too familiar with from him. A look of Bless-Your-Heart pity, confusion and affectionate impatience. “Seriously?” he asks. And you giggle. No one has been able to call you on your shit quite the way that he does.  
The tension bursts like a bubble and throw your arms back around him. “Charlie.” Your face is pressed into his chest and he feels incredible, but you make sure that your next words are clearly audible. “Oh, I love you too. So much.”  
He still needs to put his jacket on and grab his bag from the floor and you want to stamp your foot in frustration because you absolutely don’t want him to leave! You want to pull him into the bedroom and let him fall asleep with his head in your lap, in the bed that can barely fit both of you.  
There are final goodnight kisses, promises to call/text during lunch tomorrow and reminders to not stay up too late. Take care of yourself, eat a balanced breakfast and don’t you dare go outside with wet hair! Take care of yourselves and take care of each other.

“(Y/N), where even are you right now?!” You drag your eyes away from the salad bar in the corner and focus back on your best friend (the one that you’re not sleeping with) who sits at the table across from you, snapping her fingers like she’s trying to get the attention of a stranger’s dog. Boy, you really suck at being a BFF, don’t you?  
“No, I’m totally zoning out, I’m sorry.” You feel wretched because the two of you had been trying to get together for a Girly Day for months, juggling conflicts and commitments. And here you are, after all that planning, ignoring her completely.  
“Are you on new meds or something?” she asks as she stirs her iced tea. “Because you have definitely seemed loopy lately.” Loopy? Loopy, like how? Are you singing to yourself and waltzing everywhere like some lovesick princess? Are there stars in your eyes and roses in your cheeks and fuck! ‘Discretion, my dear,’ you remind yourself. ‘Keep it secret, keep it safe.’  
“No, meds are fine,” you shake your head. And isn’t it ironic how much easier things were supposed to be as adults, yet you’re all on antidepressants nowadays? Getting divorces and committing adultery. “Just stress,” you continue. “Life.” She nods understandingly and isn’t this what lunch with your girlfriends is for? Gossiping and complaining? You keep going. “You know my friend, Charlie. The one I went to school with?”  
“The tall guy,” she affirms and adds as an afterthought “The good-looking guy.” You give her a very convincing eyeroll and an impatient “Whatever.” Oh, you are too good! You should have gone down the acting route instead of teaching.  
“Anyway, he’s going through a divorce and I’ve been like, on-call support staff for weeks.” The waiter brings your desserts and you both spend the next several minutes silently indulging. But you’ve become pretty adept at silent indulgences by now.  
“It’s just now starting to get nasty,” you continue, picking up easily from where you left off. “There’s a whole custody battle thing and I didn’t mean to get too deep into it, but…” you hold your hands out in a supplicant “Here we are” gesture.  
Not for nothing is she your second-best friend and she eyes you beadily over the last bits of her cheesecake. You busy yourself stacking your fork and napkin onto your dirty plate. Got to makes things easier for the busser. Got to avoid eye contact with this bitch before she starts putting pieces together and creating a sordid, but probably accurate picture of what’s really going on. Maybe the acting path was not right for you after all.  
You risk peeking up at her (one can only rearrange a crumpled napkin so many times). She smiles, not in a sarcastic or salacious way, as she pulls the spoon out of her tea glass. “You’re a good friend, you know,” she says and you melt with relief and gratitude. “We’re lucky to have you.” Sometimes you wonder if you’re not a completely horrid human being. Validation feels so good and you murmur a heartfelt thank you at her.  
“Now, can we go look at fucking shoes or not?!” She flicks her spoon at you so suddenly that all you can do is squawk in indignation as drops of tea hit you in the face. “You whore!” you whisper as she pushes the check to the edge of the table and raises her eyebrows at you.  
“It’s a good thing I’m so classy and dignified,” you say as you say as you both walk out. “And that I won’t stoop to your immature level.” She laughs as you reach the sidewalk outside and links her arm with yours. “You’ve never been dignified, you nutcase!” And you laugh with her. It feels amazing to be loved. But almost as good to be just known. And you’re the lucky one, of course. To have both.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When secrets threaten to become public and barbs are thrown from both sides, tension reaches a boiling point. Unanswered questions that were never even asked, loom large and suffocating. Even when the path ahead isn't totally clear, you can still choose who you want to accompany you.

Ostensibly, you’re supposed to be writing next week’s lesson plans. You’re aware that the weekend is already getting away from you and had even removed yourself from the distractions of home for the morning so you could focus on getting some actual work done. You’ve commandeered an entire table in one of your neighborhood’s coffee shops, papers and laptop covering the surface. But the idea of teaching a class of hormonal 8th graders the concept of sensory recall seems less appealing the longer the longer you think about it. And the siren call of Words with Friends is just too strong to resist. 

“I’m surprised he’s not here with you.” The voice is familiar even if the harsh tone isn’t and simply out of habit, you look up and smile. But the greeting of “Hey, lady!” dies on your lips when you see her. This is not your lady. Not anymore. This is your nightmare and you have no way of waking up.  
Nicole looks every bit the career woman/super mom as she pulls out the chair and sits across from you. “Shouldn’t you two be off somewhere, making googly eyes at each other? Or playing Footsie under the table?” 

She turns your cup around so she can read your name on it. “What do you really think is going to happen here, (Y/N)? That Charlie is going to marry you or something?” She rolls her eyes before tapping the screen on your phone to check the time. You silently thank God that your lock screen is a picture of you and your mom at Coney Island and nothing more incriminating. “He still has responsibilities, you know,’ Nicole continues her lecture. “Family obligations, financial, a new show that’s about to open. Like he’s just going to run away with you somewhere?”  
“I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen after everything is settled.” Truthfully, you don’t even have any idea of what you’re going to say next. “None of us do. I just want to be supportive and do what I can to make the whole transition easier.”  
As soon as you said it, you cursed yourself. You knew she was going to notice and latch onto it. “Us,” she repeats. “That’s cute.” You’re familiar with Nicole’s habit of getting condescending and passive aggressive when she’s angry. You’ve seen it many times, but never has her ire been directed at you. She sighs dramatically before going on. “Look, I don’t know what kind of preordained, soulmate thing you think you have with Charlie, but I was sick of it ten years ago and I’m sick of it now.”  
So that’s her angle. To make you feel like you’ve always been some kind of unwelcome intrusion whose presence was only mildly tolerated. ‘Stupid little third wheel who just can’t let things go. How silly of her to think that she can collect only half the pieces of a broken marriage and be able to make them into something.’  
You bite your tongue, even though the urge to retaliate is making you dig your nails into your palms. You want to lean over the table and whisper conspiratorially to Nicole how you fell asleep next to her husband just last night. How you dozed as he stroked your hair, but were still awake enough to hear him quietly musing. “I wonder if we went someplace way up town where we wouldn’t run into anybody. I wonder if we could get away with looking at rings.” Or ask her if he’s always done that thing with his fingers. Or isn’t it adorable how his mouth gets crooked when he says the word Love?  
But you know better. Everything she’s said so far is all speculation and the very last thing you want to do is admit to anything that can hurt Charlie’s case or, God forbid, his custody of Henry. You remind yourself that a tremendous change like divorce can be difficult to process. And Nicole needs to be able to do that. It’s healthy. But you do not understand her acting like she still has some sort of propriety claim on Charlie. She didn’t want him! And you do.  
You remember reading in a psychology class (“But I’m a theater major!”) that anger is usually masking a deeper emotion, like shame or fear. And that’s the root of all of it, isn’t it? You never thought of yourself as a rebound, a temporary bedwarmer, not with the history you shared. And Charlie had never made you feel anything less than absolutely cherished.  
But you are scared. You see it now. Scared of losing something that makes you feel like the luckiest woman in the world. Scared that this man who you’ve completely fallen for is going to realize that whatever started between you has an expiration date and that that it’s time for him to be getting on with his real life. Thanks for the memories, kid. Here’s fifty bucks. Go out and buy yourself something pretty.  
Nicole is still going on about something, but her words are lost on you. Has she always gestured this much when she talks? He nails are a neutral shade, but so shiny! And she’s still wearing her…. No, she’s not. That’s her right hand.  
“He’s not going to just abandon his son. Not for you.” Nicole rolls her eyes and you clench your fists under the table. You do not cry or lunge at her and punch her in the mouth.  
“That was a low blow, Nicole.” You can hear the tremor in your voice and know that you are dangerously close to losing it. “I adore Henry, you know that.”  
Nicole sighs loudly in exasperation. “It’s not your job to adore him.” She’s even thoughtful enough to include the sarcastic, little finger quotes around the word Adore. “You are not his mother.”  
“I don’t want to be his mother! He already has a mother!” Okay, you are definitely too loud now. Is this what ‘Making a Scene’ looks like? Other customers are beginning to stare and you figure it’s only a matter of time before someone takes out a phone and starts recording the whole thing. At the counter, the barista is eyeballing you from behind the giant bottles of syrup he’s supposed to be stocking.  
“I’m not doing this,” you stammer. “I’m not having this conversation with you.” You stand and start shoving your things into your bag. Laptop, loose papers, it doesn’t matter, you’ll fix it all later. You just know you need to get out. Before the walls close in on you.  
Nicole remains seated, eyebrows raised, watching your mini-breakdown with the same detached interest as the other customers. “(Y/N)?” As you move to walk past her, she puts her hand out and onto your arm. There’s no hint of scorn or frustration on her face anymore. There’s only pity as she looks up at you. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You just don’t fit into this equation.”

You spend the remainder of the day alternately fighting with your lesson plans and imagining scathing comebacks you could have thrown back at Nicole. You finally give up in the afternoon and decide that four hours is sufficient get-ready time. If you include a shower, shaving, exfoliating, shampoo and deep conditioner. Of course, you’ll want to curl your hair too. And try out that new makeup palette you got. Should you just repaint your toes or do your fingernails to match? Idle hands are the devil’s playground after all. An idle mind is even worse. 

You allow Charlie to kiss you on the cheek as you walk into his apartment later that evening, but your smile is only perfunctory. “You look amazing,” he breathes, which somehow makes you want to cry. “I’m just going to grab a jacket; I’ll be right back.” He hardly makes it down the hall before poking his head back into the living room. “Are you warm enough?” he asks. It kills you how considerate he is, always thinking of other people’s needs. And why does he always smell so good? You nod, unable to trust your mouth if you try to speak and watch as he disappears again.  
You perch gingerly on the edge of the sofa instead of sprawling like your normally would. Though your dress is a bit short for sprawling anyway. Your underwear is of the definite “I Will Steal Your Husband” variety, but who can blame you for that bit of overcompensation? And even with sandals instead of heels, you have to admit, your legs look freaking killer! You decide that redoing your toenails was a good decision after all and you mentally pat yourself on the back for it.  
Charlie emerges, looking handsome as hell in his jacket and somehow carrying your “missing” purple pashmina. When had you left that here? “I know you said you weren’t cold,” he explains, making his way to the sofa and to you. “But I washed it and thought…. are you all right?” Whether reading your posture and body language (uncross your arms!) or just sensing your unease, Charlie of course, realizes that something is amiss.  
“I’m fine,” you shake your head, hardly daring to look at him. Not knowing what you’d do if you did. Charlie peers at you and takes a step closer. “You’re chewing on your nails,” he points out. “You’re not fine.” You scowl as you pull your thumb from your mouth and stare at it. Your carefully picked polish seems ridiculous now. From Here to Eternity? What a stupid name for a color. Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster writhing around on the beach. Do you even remember how that film ended?  
You’re mad at yourself and you’re mad at Charlie. Who the hell does he think he is? Assuming he knows what’s going on in your head better than you do? If you say you’re fine, then you’re fucking fine, aren’t you?  
“It doesn’t matter,” you sigh as you grab your purse next to you. “No, it’s fine. Let’s just go.” You stand and tug at the hem of your dress, suddenly conscious of its length. Charlie looks worried and now thoroughly confused. You can see the tops of his cheeks turning pink. “Of course, it matters!” he says. He’s trying to still sound comforting and validating, you can tell, but notes of agitation are creeping into his voice. “What is going on?”  
Your purse falls back onto the sofa as you throw your hands up in confusion and frustration. “You tell me, Charlie! What the fuck is going on?” You glare at him and his shrug is almost more aggressive than it is confused, waiting for you to answer your own question. “God!” you snap, grabbing your purse again. “Never mind, okay? I’m not doing this.” You gesture at the door. “Are we getting dinner or not?” Jesus, you can’t have a conversation with anyone today.  
Charlie has his arms folded, but still manages to shrug again. “All right,” his voice is cool and dismissive. “So, you’re going to be weird and secretive now? Not tell me anything at all? Just like her.” It would have hurt less if he’d hit you, backhanded you right across the face like you saw that man in the park do to his wife. And you stand frozen now, just like she had. You remember how your mother ushered you quickly past them, whispering to you, “This isn’t our business”. But you were mesmerized by the giant red handprint blooming on her cheek and dragged your feet so you could keep watching as your mother pulled you away.  
You see the immediate panic on Charlie’s face, his eyes go wild and the blood drains from his cheeks. “Shit, shit, I didn’t mean that.” He pulls you into a hug so tight it crushes the air out of your lungs. His hand on the back on your head is mussing your carefully-curled hair and you don’t want him to ever let go. Even if he keeps on hurting you.  
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” Charlie babbles, trying to take it all back. “You could never be like her.” He pulls away, kisses you on the lips, firmly, but not forcefully and presses his forehead into yours. “But you’re scaring the hell out of me right now. You know that, right?”  
You slump back onto the sofa, not even caring how un-ladylike you look or how you must be wrinkling the hell out of your dress. Charlie carefully moves your purse aside and sits down next to you. He looks scared. Maybe even as scared as you are. “Can you just talk to me? Please?” he asks and your stomach clenches at the hint of desperation in his voice. Who can hurt the other more tonight? Still, you think, it’s Nicole who has inflicted the majority of the pain. “Whatever it is,” Charlie continues, “I’ll help you fix it. I promise.” He holds out one of his enormous, oven glove hands to you, with his little finger extended. “Pinky swear,” he offers.  
It’s such simple gesture, sweet and yet fiercely protective. It’s something you could see him doing with Henry, sealing an important pact. Maybe in the treehouse at that suburban dream home.  
You grant Charlie a watery smile, hook your pinky around his and grip it for all you’re worth. With some hesitations, a few more tears and a decent amount of profanity, the story comes out. “She just made me feel like such crap,” you sigh as Charlie abandons his spot next to you and starts pacing the room. He rubs his eyes as he walks, shoves his hands through his hair and bites his lip. “She made it seem like I’ve always been invisible and that I’ll still invisible after…” You pause to catch your breath. Just come right out and say it, Brenda Lee! Ask him ‘Will you still love me tomorrow?’ “I don’t know,” you sigh heavily. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say here.”  
Charlie stops pacing. He pats down his pockets and looks inside his jacket. He pulls out his phone and starts jabbing at the screen. “I could murder her for this,” he fumes. “I really could. I’ll call the judge right now, see if we can get you a protective order or something. I don’t want her anywhere near you.”  
“Oh, and what would that look like?” you snap. You love that he jumped to your defense so quickly, but anything that brings you into the picture will surely set tongues wagging. In a close-knit theater community that thrives on gossip as much as it does applause, it would be a feeding frenzy. And you’d both be eaten alive.  
“I don’t care what the fuck it looks like,” Charlie shakes his head, eyes still trained on his phone’s screen. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes before looking back up at you. “It looks like you taking my kid to the zoo because I got called into some last-minute briefing. It looks like your lavender pillow scrunched up next to mine in the mornings. It looks like you not getting harassed and assaulted every time you go out in public!” He drops his phone back into his pocket and sits down next to you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “It looks like how your face is going to absolutely light up when you come across the perfect, outlandish wedding dress.”  
“Charlie, don’t,” you whisper, feeling your lower lip wobble. “Please?”  
“Don’t what?” he asks. Though it feels more like a challenge than an actual question. Daring you to finally address the M-shaped elephant in the room. “It’s one thing to joke about it,” you sniff, swiping impatiently at your nose. “I mean, we do that all the time. But now? God, just not today. Not after everything else.”  
Charlie hands you that handkerchief that he always seems to carry. “(Y/N), at no point was I ever joking about any of it.”  
“Then what was it?!” you sob. “What the hell is any of this? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here. I really don’t.” You feel like you want to yank handfuls of your own hair out and throw them at him. You’re just so frustrated! “I feel like I can only give people the ‘Just Friends” spiel for so long. One day, I’m just going to blurt out to someone that the best part of my life right now, the thing that makes me happier than anything in the world is being in love with a married man.” Your voice cracks and you find yourself repeating Nicole’s words from earlier. “I guess I just don’t know where I fit in this equation.”  
“You fit on the right,” Charlie doesn’t miss a beat. “Your lady always walks on your right side. Always. Or…” he shoves the coffee table back and kneels in front of the sofa. “You fit up there while I do this.” You freeze as he takes your hand and you realize with abject horror what he’s about to do. He gets as far as saying your full name before you snatch your hand away and positively shriek, “No! Charlie, oh my GOD!” You want to tackle him and hold your hands over his mouth. Is he out of his mind? This was not where the night was supposed to go at all.  
You catch words like “forever” and “wait”, and “Henry”, but you continue your tirade, talking over him, determined to drown out the whole thing. If you’re not in the woods to hear it, it doesn’t make a sound, right?  
“… get up off the damn floor or I’m calling the police.” Your voice suddenly sounds way too loud by itself, too shaky. The apartment is silent. Charlie is still doing that godawful one-knee thing and you can barely stand to look at him. You do see him rise to his feet though. “You know something,’ he says. “I can’t do this. It’s not right.”  
Equal parts relief and disappointment flood you and you sink back into the cushions. You push the disappointment aside. You can deal with that later, when you have wine and chocolate handy. But what if he’d not changed his mind? God, can you imagine?! Asking you to marry him in his living room?! What would you have done? Said yes in a heartbeat. You know that.  
Charlie helps pull you up from the clutches of the sofa as he sits and places his hand on the small of your back. “I can’t do it without a ring, at least.” He straightens his jacket and smooths the lapels. “Stop!” you whine, shoving his knee with yours. You’re supposed to be angry. And sad! Tragically beautiful and tormented. You’re not supposed to be sitting there, feeling the beginnings of butterflies in your stomach. He’s just not going to let this go, is he?  
“This is absolutely not happening.” You shake your head and the butterflies multiply as Charlie presses his hand into your back. “Then why are you smiling?”  
God, he’s a fucking idiot sometimes. “‘Because I want it. I want it so much!” You really don’t know whether to laugh or cry and settle for a little of each. “I had the princess wedding fantasies just like any other kid. Wearing Grandma’s tablecloth on my head like it was a veil, looking at bridal magazines in the grocery store.” At this point, you think you might as well keep the confessions coming. Why not? “I’d already decided what song to play for the Father/Daughter Dance and everything. I was set.”  
Charlie’s eyes are way too brown. And way too familiar. And how many times are you going to slip up in this man’s living room until there’s nothing there to catch you anymore? “I’ll always want to be swept off my feet, you know? Who doesn’t still secretly want that?”  
Charlie takes your hand again and you let him keep it this time. He laces your fingers together and presses his palm against yours. “Two questions for you,” he says as he checks his watch. “And then we really do need to go.” You nod. What else is there to know after all that emotional word vomit? “Do you really think we can get your dad to get up and dance, in front of other people?”  
You almost, almost don’t catch the meaning behind his words until he brings your hand up to his lips and peers at you over your knuckles. “And would you?” he asks simply. You’re probably breaking every one of his fingers the way you’re squeezing his hand. “After everything is settled,” Charlie continues. “I mean everything. Can we? Would you marry me?”  
You can’t move, but he’s already said it. It’s there. And there’s no streetsweeper outside the window now. Or courthouse hallways. You have a toothbrush in the bathroom, a handful of your own t-shirts and underwear in the dresser and a purple pashmina in case you get cold. And what are you doing?! He’s never going to let you be cold again!  
“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Charlie’s voice is calm, but it hurts to watch him backtrack. “I know that there’s still…”  
“Shut up,” you interrupt him. Is this son of a bitch ever going to stop assuming he knows what you’re thinking? “Yes,” you roll your eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course, I will. I am. We’re going to.” You look down at your feet, From Here to Eternity and that living room floor! You press your lips together in a failed attempt to not smile as you look back up at him. He’s still just as beautiful as ever, but what even is he now? Still Secret Married Boyfriend? Fiancé? Fauxance? And you stifle the giggle in your throat. “Jesus Christ, Charlie, did we just really do that?”  
He laughs and swings you onto your feet. God, that smile is going to be the death of you someday. “A ring and doves, balloons, pyrotechnics, whatever you want,” he gestures grandly. “But for now, dinner.” He hands you your purse, retrieves the rumpled pashmina from the floor and offers you his arm. “Always on the right, remember.”  
, He puts his hand over yours and walks his lady out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dance song is With Arms Wide Open, by Creed. The epitome of cheesy Daddy/Daughter dance songs.  
But the song in my head, making me say, "That's IT!" while I was writing was Lift Me Up, by Live.  
This is probably the closest thing to a songfic I'll ever write.


	5. You Have Reached Your Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On what has already been an emotional roller coaster of a day and surely has more curves and steep hills in store, why not let Charlie take you up another hill? Just not all the way.

Charlie places his hand over yours as you walk into the hall. “If you make us miss our reservation, you’re getting an aluminum foil ring. And I won’t finger you in the back of the cab like I had planned.” You pull away and stare at him incredulously. It’s been one hell of a weird day, but he’s not serious?   
Cross town traffic is, of course, ridiculous. But even with your earlier squabble, you’ve given yourselves plenty of time to reach the restaurant. You lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes briefly. Your perfect eyeliner wings have been cried off and are probably soaked into your cleavage by now. However…. you open one eye and peek down at your chest, the cleavage itself is looking pretty damn good.  
While stopped at a red light, Charlie unfurls the pashmina that he’s been holding and gently lays it over your lap like a blanket. “I know you said you wouldn’t get cold, but…” He shrugs and you smile, leaning closer to him. He really is a good guy. Your guy? God, are you ever going to get to a point in your life where that thought doesn’t make you want to pinch yourself?  
You’re not terribly surprised and only briefly glance at him when you feel Charlie’s hand slip under the fabric and his pinky brush against the outside of your thigh. You hope his hands aren’t cold; you’d be willing to hold them if he needed it, breathe on them or rub them with your own hands to warm them up. You’re so deliriously in love with him right now, you’ll do just about anything for him.   
But when his hand slides over your leg and it dips down between your thighs, there’s very little mistake of what he needs or what he intends to do. But he wouldn’t dare! Surrounded by rush hour traffic, while your cab driver scratches the back of his neck in front of you. This is way too public, way too open. A bad idea all around. But you can feel yourself already getting wet.   
“So, what do you want?” Charlie asks his hand creeps higher, pushing up the fabric of your skirt. His fingers lightly squeezing and thumb massaging small circles into your skin. Is he fucking serious right now? What the hell are you supposed to say? As you stare are him, your eyes wide and mouth agape, he runs his other hand through his already tousled hair and glances quickly at the traffic outside before turning his gaze back to you.   
“You know, Stones? Shape? That kind of thing.” Motherfucker, is he actually talking about rings?! You briefly squeeze your eyes shut as you feel his middle finger begin to trace the leg of your panties, while his pinky and ring finger ghost over your cunt. Charlie hums appreciatively and seems to approve of your choice of panties.   
“I… I don’t really know,” you answer as your stomach clenches. “I hadn’t thought much about it, I guess. Until tonight.” His hand slides further over, deeper between your legs and you gasp audibly as his fingers slip under the leg of your panties. Oh, but you’re so wet for him! He should know better than to try this.  
“Diamonds are still bad, right?” Charlie asks and leans toward you, frowning. “We don’t like diamonds?” Of course, the angle is completely awkward, but it’s delicious when he slides his fingers up between your lips and under the pashmina, you feel your legs drifting further open for him.  
“No,” you whimper. “Diamonds… ah! Diamonds support slavery.” He presses the heel of his palm into your clit and you squirm. Dammit! Even as you’re spreading your legs wider, slouching in your seat and pushing your pelvis forward, Charlie brushes an imaginary piece of lint from off his pants and rolls his eyes.   
“She picked out her own ring,” he scoffs. After the coffee shop scene that morning, it feels especially gratifying to gossip about Nicole while her almost-ex deftly strokes your dripping pussy. “She picked it out herself and paid for it and then I was the one who ended up being surprised by it.”   
“How bougie,” you choke and Charlie breaks just long enough to give you a genuine smile. It’s hard not to smile back. At least until he starts tracing lazy circles around your clit with his middle finger. He shifts in his seat to get a better angle, to apply more pressure. If the driver were to glance in his mirror, though, it would merely look like Charlie was really engaged in the conversation, really interested in your input instead of putting his fingers all over your pussy.   
You draw a deep, shuddering break and shake your head to clear it. If this is some sort of battle of wills that he’s declared, then you’re definitely up for that challenge. You were both in theater in school. You each went through your respective Method phases. And it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a fingering in the back of a cab to get you to break character.  
Gripping the edges of the pashmina, you fix Charlie with a level stare as he finds the perfect angle to gently insert his finger into your pussy. And he meets your gaze, looking politely thoughtful. You bite back the moan threatening to escape and keep your tone sounding light and nonchalant. “I guess I’m more drawn to the vintage pieces, you know? I like the history in them, the stories they tell.” Two fingers are now thrusting steadily in and out of you. You can feel your body growing warm and tense and the moisture between your legs growing.   
Another deep breath. Concentrate. “And I’ve never really been crazy about my birthstone. It’s just boring.” Charlie nods, filing the information away for later while also taking stock of your flushed face and the slight movement of your hips. He’s familiar enough with your MO by now and has the good sense to stop before making you come. You’re grateful, but disappointed. And frustrated. Are “Blue Ovaries” actually a thing? Charlie withdraws his hand and pops his finger into his mouth like it’s no big deal. Like licking a smudge of chocolate off. Or sucking at a papercut to dull the pain. As the cab slows in front of the restaurant, he retrieves the ever-present handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his other fingers.  
He smiles at you again, another crinkly-eye, dimply smile as he affectionately rubs your leg. “Warming up?” he asks. You hate him so much.


	6. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When emotions are high and attachments forbidden, Charlie and Reader find themselves clinging even more tightly to each other than usual. And in the open, but still under the protection of anonymity, they can make time stop. And lose themselves entirely.

Despite the evening’s earlier unpleasantness, dinner is lovely, romantic even. Charlie looks amazed when your reach for his hand on the table and lace your fingers between his. “I can actually do this here,” you remind him, smiling like an absolute goon. “Where other people can see it too.”  
There’s wine before and during dinner. And then more with dessert. And while it’s not enough to get sloppy, it’s still probably too much wine. But neither of you have to drive anywhere. And you’re both so enamored with each other and with the fact that you can be enamored with each other, it’s hard to tell what’s more intoxicating.   
“We’ll have to come back here,” Charlie says, glancing around the dining room after dessert. “Maybe after our shopping trip. We’ll make a whole day of it.” He does the finger quotes around the words “Shopping trip”, but it’s really not necessary. You know exactly what finger he’s talking about.   
“I wonder if I could get away with wearing something on my right hand,” you muse and smile at the sight of your From Here to Eternity colored nails. They look so pretty in this light. “Until things are settled, at least. And I could switch sides.”   
Charlie shrugs and reaches for your hand. “You could put it on a chain around your neck. Keep it tucked into your shirt if you need to.” You can tell he likes the Secret Engagement idea about as much as you do (or as The Vicomte de Chagny does), but you can’t help laughing out loud at the thought of the ring-necklace. “If I wear it around my neck,” you ask playfully, “Does that mean we’re going steady?” Charlie tightens his grip on your hand. “Goddamn right it does.”  
After paying the bill and calling you a cab, Charlie glances once more at his phone’s home screen before turning it off. All the way off. Sliding the button all the way. This feels like a big deal. Countless times, you’ve seen him make sure the phone is on vibrate or on silent, but he’s always remained on call for hysterical actors or hysterical lawyers or in case Henry might need to talk to his dad for whatever reason. You’ve never seen him cut off that communication, even temporarily.   
You feel like a giddy schoolgirl on her first date when Charlie pulls you to him and kisses you under the streetlamp outside. You have several minutes to kill before the taxi arrives and it’s dark enough and still far enough away from home that it won’t matter if someone sees you. And making out on the sidewalk is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time, even when you are an adult.   
But while it does serve to pass the time, it also serves to wrap you up into each other tighter. Even without the wine, you’re drunk on his touch, how his lips taste as you slide your tongue over them. Soon your hands find their way up under his jacket and you’re tugging on the back of his shirt as you pant into his open mouth.  
It’s only a few feet to the alley that runs alongside the building and it isn’t long until Charlie pulls you into the darkness and presses you against the wall. He has you immobilized, trapped between his own body (with the very obvious hardness between his legs) and the building. “God, I love you so much!” he murmurs into your hair as he drags your leg up and hooks it over his. His hand slides up your skirt and, again stretches the elastic in your panties as he rubs it over your ass. “I don’t even want to go back home tonight,” he whines as he kneads into your soft flesh. “It’ll take too long. I just want to stop at the first cheap motel we see, get a room and just make you come all night long. Fuck you on every surface.”   
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like the next logical step in the Evolution of Charlie and (Y/N), long-time platonic BFF’s. It doesn’t feel like a one-time lapse in judgement or even like a selfish and unethical mid-divorce relationship (Jesus, could you keep your legs closed for just a little bit longer?) It feels like lying and cheating. It’s dirty like an honest-to-God affair. And holy shit, it’s hot as hell!   
You want him to fuck you in every single seedy motel you can find, in every dark alley. In rehearsal spaces, before anyone else has arrived, when he tastes like coffee and toothpaste. Thrusting hard into you with his hand pressed over your mouth with Nicole and Henry in the next room. You don’t care who gets hurt anymore or what collateral damage it will cause. Not at the expense of your own pleasure. Or his. You need each other! And you deserve this.   
The counter in the motel lobby is shiny and you watch the pattern of smudges appear and disappear as Charlie drums his fingers impatiently against the surface. The desk clerk gives you a knowing look as she runs your credit card. The same look the taxi driver gave you when Charlie yanked you into the backseat and demanded, “Just whatever’s closest.” You’re not fooling anybody tonight.   
Charlie paces the floor of the small room; he shuffles the brochures in the rack by the door. Your purple pashmina has somehow ended up around his neck. The clerk must either think he’s on drugs or he’s out gallivanting with “The Other Woman”. She’s partially right. And if you weren’t so sickeningly in love with him, you’d have to admit how ridiculous he looks.   
Maybe your smile is more of a smirk as the clerk slides the key card across the counter and Charlie is already pulling on your hand. Maybe they both notice you hesitate as you sign the receipt. No, you’re not committing credit card fraud. Just seized by the sudden urge to write “(Y/N) Barber” on the slip of paper.   
You get a glimpse of the room as you flick on the light and toss your purse onto the bed. It’s small, but clean at least, if not fancy. Nondescript, “artsy” prints decorate the walls and the bed is covered with an itchy looking floral comforter. Not sleazy, but standard.   
The door isn’t even locked yet, when Charlie pushes you up against it and presses hard into you. “I love this pussy,” he moans as he pushes your leg up and slides his hand down into your panties. Poor guy, he’s been trying to get into there all night. And you both sigh with relief as he finally slides his fingers as far as they’ll go into you. “What about this?” you tease, running your left ring finger over his lips. All the earlier talk of rings and weddings has you feeling bold and much more bratty than normal. “Do you love this too?”  
“Fuck yeah, that too,” Charlie pants enthusiastically as his fingers pump in and out of you. He kisses the tip of your finger then sucks it gently into his mouth, before moving his lips onto your neck. “I’ll marry you the second this is over; I swear to God I will!” he babbles into your skin. “Fuck, I’ll even knock you up if you want.” You moan loudly and grind down onto his fingers. God, that sounds so.... wait no! No, it doesn’t! What are you doing? You have a career and a house plant and a soon to be divorced boyfriend that all need attention. There’s no way in hell that some poor unsuspecting baby is getting thrown into that mix.   
And you say the first words that pop into your head when your head is completely muddled. “I’ll already have a kid,” you sigh as Charlie’s fingers rub over your g-spot. “I’ll have Henry. He’ll be yours and mine then.” You’re well aware, of course, that lots of women have their daddy kinks, Freudian Electra Complexes or a single mother childhood with no father figures. Whatever the cause is, more power to those women.   
It had never occurred to you though, that men would have their own version, their own fatherhood fetish that may be more than just evolutionary. But you seem to have hit some kind of hot button in Charlie. And if you didn’t know any better, you would swear he was actually coming himself. He groans loudly into your hair. Curls his fingers into you and yanks your pelvis toward him.  
As impractical and hormonal as the fantasy is, it’s still a difficult picture to get out of your head. Charlie getting you pregnant while still not totally divorced. You imagine yourself with just the slightest hint of a baby bump, maybe picking up or dropping off Henry. Watching Nicole watch you while Charlie’s hand hovers protectively over your stomach. She knows. She can do the math.   
It’s so vindictive and disgusting and it only takes a few more thrusts of his fingers, a bit more pressure on your g-spot before you’re coming hard around him, your pussy sucking his fingers deeper into you. As your orgasm peaks, your curled toes barely reaching the floor, you think of dear Nicole and your “He already has a mother” moment from that morning. And he’s about to have two mothers soon, bitch and you know exactly where you fit in this equation.   
“I love that you do that,” Charlie says after you’ve finished. He licks your cum from his fingers, taking the time to suck each one clean. “Without a doubt, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”  
“You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” you mutter sleepily and look up at him from where you’d collapsed on the bed. And it’s absolutely true. Even without getting off himself, he’s still glowing. It always amazes you how much he seems to genuinely love making you feel good. And very seldom asks for anything in return.  
“Sorry about the mess, though,” you add as he takes off his jacket and tosses it on the bed next to you. Charlie pauses rolling his sleeves up and shrugs as you stare at his wet shirt cuff in dismay. “I don’t plan on keeping it on for that much longer anyway.” He grabs the bucket from off the desk. “And honestly? I kind of like the idea of keeping your cum on me. At least for now. KitKat, right?” You nod. It didn’t take him long to figure out what your favorite after-sex indulgence is. “Chocolate for my lady.” Charlie briefly squeezes one of your feet from where they hang off the edge of the bed and goes off in search of ice and junk food.   
Your panties are almost a lost cause, soaked with your cum and the elastic stretched out from Charlie’s enormous hand. But the trip back home in the morning will be awkward enough without attempting to go commando. You fill one of the sinks with warm water and throw the offending garment in, figuring you’ll let them soak and hang them in the shower later to dry.  
Leaving the bathroom door open, you turn the hot water up, peel off your sweaty dress and step into the shower. You don’t make much progress with the scratchy washcloth and tiny bar of soap, but it feels good to at least rinse off some of the various bodily fluids.   
You’re attempting to scrub whatever makeup you hadn’t already cried off, when you hear Charlie come into the room. “Hi,” you greet him, tugging the curtain back. He’s left his own clothes in the bedroom, standing there in just his boxers, as they make a noble effort to contain his already-swollen cock, even with the wet spot of precum that spreads across the fabric. “Your Kitkat is on your pillow,” he says in a low voice. You love how quickly you established who has which side of the bed and how automatic it became.  
“You want to come in?” you ask, holding out the scratchy washcloth invitingly. But Charlie shakes his head, looking dazed as he takes in your wet hair, watches the soapy bubbles as they slide down your tits and how the cold air from the room makes your nipples hard. He only has to reach for you and his hand is on the back of your head and you stand up on your toes and press your wet lips into his.  
You love the feel of his muscles twitching as you run your soggy hand down his stomach, dripping water onto him and onto the floor as you reach down into his shorts and wrap your fingers around him. God, he’s so big! You wonder almost every time, when you first see or feel his hard cock, how it’s going to fit anywhere and not tear you in half. But it always does. Fitting and filling and stretching so nicely. It’s always perfect.  
Charlie doesn’t fuck you in the shower. Not for lack of trying though. But every position is too awkward, you’re too far away from each other or you’re getting water up your nose. Finally, he just lifts you out, wet hair and all and leaves the shower running. Charlie leans you over the double vanity and you push back, grinding against him as he slides into your dripping (more so than usual) pussy. The mirror is fogged up and you realize you don’t even have a toothbrush and you can see your panties are still in the sink, floating like a black lacy jellyfish.   
He bends his knees so he can thrust up even deeper into you and you can feel the head of his cock push into your cervix on every thrust. “Oh God!” you pant as Charlie reaches around your waist and pulls you even tighter against him. “Oh please.” The deep penetration at this angle is too, too good and you lean your head against your arm on the counter, closing your eyes and focusing on not screaming and waking other guests through the paper-thin walls.  
“Hey.” Charlie runs his hand up your back and you lift your head to look at his blurry reflection behind you. He curls his body over yours and presses a kiss into your shoulder. “I love you.”   
Later, you ride him lazily in the bed. You’re both exhausted and you’ve already got a wine-headache, but you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other. It’s almost like that first night. You watch the flickery blue from the TV moving across Charlie’s face and you marvel again at how freaking gorgeous he is! With his mouth partway open and his eyes following the motion of your breasts.   
“Wait, hold on,” Charlie suddenly directs you and gently taps your leg. “Move for a minute?” You climb off, mildly curious, but assuming that he’s just going to turn you around so you can both watch The Andy Griffith Show. “No, move up,” he coaxes, lightly pressing into the back of your thigh with one hand and stroking his cock with the other. You shuffle up the bed toward him and are surprised when he lifts your knee over his shoulder and guides your position over his face. But you hesitate, almost leaning away from him.   
“You know, the last time I did this, the other party was not very pleased with the uumm… results.” You remember how your then-boyfriend had spluttered and frantically wiped his face after you’d unexpectedly come all over him. And even if it was only joking, him calling you Tsunami (Y/N) afterward still stung. “I almost died that night!” he would tease.  
“Apparently, porn lies,” you whisper, dramatically. “Did you know that? It turns out, not everyone wants a squirter. Even if they say they do.” Charlie sighs and you feel his chest rise and fall underneath you. Despite your hesitation, this position, spread open and towering over him, is actually really turning you on. You’re certain he can feel the heat from your pussy, can smell your arousal and you bite your lip as your stare down at him. He’s not easy to resist like this. He’s really not all that easy to resist anyway. And he’s making you so, so wet already.   
“Any guy who doesn’t want you all the time is a fucking idiot,” Charlie explains matter-of-factly. He runs his hands up your thighs and lightly squeezes your ass. “You are so perfect and everything you do is sexy as hell.” He turns his head, cranes his neck so he can lick at the drop of fluid running down your thigh. “I’ll set my alarm early every morning if it means I can drink your cum before breakfast.”  
“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” you whisper, your heart pounding. Mild-mannered father by day and creative genius by night were both common knowledge, but it was a surprise to learn that he could be downright vulgar in bed! And you can already feel yourself sinking, knees spreading as you lower yourself onto him. In the dim light, you watch the features that you love so much, the full lips and pointy nose, disappear underneath you.   
“It’s okay, Baby. I’ve got you.” you hear Charlie whisper, before he raises his head and seals his mouth against you. Oh, but you love him! The knowledge that you always have loved him doesn’t hit you like a train, sending pieces flying everywhere. It rises like a fresnel lantern on a darkened stage, gradually coming up on a scene so by the time it’s fully lit, you can’t picture it ever having not been there.  
During your reasonably short time together, you had discovered and fully embraced Charlie’s propensity for eating your pussy and you’d long become accustomed to his preferred methods and positions. Spread open, pink and wet and waiting. On the bed after its been made or kneeling in front of you, making it impossible to stay focused on Stanley Kubrick Movie Night. Maybe it’s the different position this time, how gravity plays its own role. But he doesn’t even bother with the preliminary kissing and licking, instead pulling you right down onto his tongue.   
“Oh my God!” you gasp as he pushes into you as deep as he can go. Which is to say, pretty deep. Holy shit, is there anything about this guy that isn’t long and strong and down to get the friction on? As he wraps his arms around your thighs, you brace your hands on the headboard. Of course, in an establishment like this, the headboard is just a board bolted to the wall. A fucking wallboard. Although, if Charlie keeps up what he’s doing with his entire tongue in your pussy, you may just end up ripping the whole thing out.   
For the moment though, you can only sit frozen atop him, frozen, as you adjust to the sensation. Your cunt squeezes tight around his tongue. And you’re certain that Charlie must be able to feel your pulse through your walls as he begins moving his tongue in rhythm to your throbbing.   
He runs his (gigantic!) hands over your waist and hips, soothing your tense muscles as his lips begin working your lips, opening you up further. Just like anything else between you, it’s a reflex, it’s instinctual and it seems to happen on its own. The most delicate and subtle motion of your hips begins almost entirely of your body’s own accord. By the time you intentionally and experimentally roll against him, Charlie hums up into you. In satisfaction. And encouragement.  
It feels like only a matter of seconds before whatever trepidation you were feeling melts away entirely and you’re riding his tongue with fervor, fucking yourself on it the same way you’ve ridden his cock so many times. And when you start to lose your breath, you relax, grinding your clit into him as he reaches behind you, massages your ass and pulls your cheeks apart.   
Your orgasm is approaching quickly. You can feel it as it flows through your veins, collecting heat in your cunt. And Charlie must be able to feel how your walls tighten around his tongue because, damn him, he seems to double his efforts, somehow snaking his tongue even farther into you, pressing the tip into your g-spot and lapping at your walls.   
You scramble for the headboard, try to brace yourself, balance yourself, but it’s too slippery under your sweating palms and your nails scratch uselessly against the wood. Below you and between your spread legs, Charlie’s dark hair spreads across the pillow case and his eyes are closed like he’s in the middle of meditating. He’s there and he’s solid and you gently sink your fingers into his hair. His eyes open at your touch and you feel him smile, feel the corners of his lips turn up as he increases the pressure and suction against you. And your breath catches and your fingers clench in his hair, yanking hard on those lovely soft strands as you shove his face into your cunt. You don’t care, you don’t care, it’s Charlie and you’re going to marry him and you’re going to come so fucking hard on his tongue, down his throat and…. How much of that did you actually say out loud?   
Charlie angles his head up, so his nose brushes your clit and you’re certain that one of you is going to pass away. Either Charlie from asphyxiation or you from the sheer force of the orgasm that’s about to hit you, that’s making your heart pound and your thighs shake. And that’s it. The building pressure and heat release and fuck! You’re coming. You feel yourself squeezing and contracting, exploding! And you look down expecting to see another mess, another gasping, spluttering boyfriend. And nothing. Below you, Charlie’s eyes are closed again and his brow knit in a look of dreamy concentration as he positively sucks your cum down. Why does he do that? It’s so fucking gorgeous when he does that?!   
Your walls are still fluttering as you lift your hips and allow him to slip out from under you. And you feel the corners of your stupid eyes prick with tears. Even as Charlie is gently guiding you to lie back down beside him, you press your hand over your mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Even Mariah Carey has never felt emotions like these!  
He doesn’t miss the sniffle from you. Fucking bastard should be all too familiar with the sound by now “Okay?” he whispers. “Yeah!” you breathe, watching the popcorn ceiling as the TV’s muted light dances across it, before you roll over onto your side to face him. “That was really intense, though. And it’s been a long day and just… ugh! So many feels, you know?” Charlie wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and nose, rubbing off the majority of your slick, but doesn’t seem worried about jumping up to wash his face and he really does love leaving your cum on him, doesn’t he?   
“Have I ever told you how much I love your habit of randomly talking like a 14-year-old?” Charlie asks as he sits up against the headboard/wallboard. “God, really?!” you ask. Sometimes, you’re aware of students’ language and mannerisms rubbing off on you. And sometimes you can turn it off. But not always. “I drive my mom crazy,” you continue. “She thinks I sound completely uneducated.” Even in the dim light, you see Charlie roll his eyes almost affectionately. “Your mom,” he mutters, shaking his head.  
“It’s an occupational hazard, I swear.” And it’s true. Most days after getting home from work, your vocabulary is usually a combination of Othello and Urban Dictionary. “And, in my defense,” you continue. “Michelangelo’s La Pieta is hella fuckin sick.” Charlie’s bare chest rises and falls as he huffs out a laugh. Damn, he’s got a nice chest. “I really can’t argue that point,” he says. “It’s absolutely true.” A nice chest and impeccable taste in art.   
He yawns and stretches as he rolls over to grab the remote for the nightstand. “We should probably try to sleep at some point, shouldn’t we?” On the TV, Andy Griffith has been replaced by an infomercial where the host is entirely too excited about a vacuum cleaner. It’s kind of uncomfortable to watch and you’re grateful when Charlie turns off the TV, leaving the room lit only by the orange-y artificial light from outside.   
Settling himself on his side of the bed, Charlie automatically holds his arms out and you automatically curl up against him with your head on his chest. “No diamonds,” he says softly as he pulls the blankets up over you. “No birthstone. Father-Daughter dance.” Several minutes pass in silence, but his arms still tighten around you when you whisper back into his skin, “And the most outlandish wedding dress.”


	7. Ferromagnatism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attraction, once forged, cannot be denied or undone. And one will always follow the other. When major changes threaten to shake the stability of the little world that Charlie and Reader have created for themselves, they must decide how fiercely to protect it or how to embrace change and grow with it.

There’s time to kill between one task and the next. Work is over and you don’t have to be at the airport for a few more hours. It’s tea time. And trashy magazine time! The new issue of Cosmopolitan on your sofa has been tempting you with the promise of “13 Sex Positions to Drive Him Wild!” and you’re determined to find out just how wild that may be.   
You’re dipping your teabag into the mug and wondering why on Earth anyone would name a sex position Froggie Style, or name a perfume Guilt, for that matter when you hear the sound of your door being unlocked and opening. It must be either your mom or dad. They’re the only ones, other than Charlie who have a key. You glance quickly at the clock on the stove. It doesn’t really make sense for any of them to be here at this time. Especially when your dad is always complaining about walking in on you in various states of undress. Jesus, just stop showing up announced! You consider whipping off your shirt and greeting them with just your bra on. It would serve them right!   
But there’s only a single figure in the entry, tall and slightly rumpled. He tosses his bags onto the floor and holds out his arms. “Charlie!” You almost sound more scolding than surprised. “You should have called me! If I’d known you’re were going to be early, I still would have met you there!” But you press yourself against him, bury your face into his chest as he rests his chin on top of your head. He smells like recycled airplane air and unfamiliar laundry detergent. Why can’t Nicole just keep her ass in one spot? Or at least wait until she gets back from visiting her mom to discuss Important Divorce Things. Is it really worth dragging him across the country on like, no notice?   
It feels so good to have him back though. At least, it almost feels good. Today, it seems like there’s more than just jet lag throwing him off. And his muscles feel tense under your hands. You pull away and look closely at him. “I got an earlier flight,” he says and rubs a hand over his hair. “I just wanted to get home. Wanted to see you.”   
“Something’s wrong. What happened?” you demand. But he only shakes his head and gives you a pained look and an irritable twitch of his shoulders. Whatever is wrong, this is a man that is badly in need of some TLC. And while you’re fresh out of candles and rose petals, you do still possess some creature comforts and maybe a few new sex positions too. But first thing’s first. “I have tea,” you offer, grabbing his hand. “Come have tea with me?”   
You’re dragging him into the kitchen and he stops, pulls you back toward him. “We’re going to be all right, remember?” he reminds you. Of course, your heart drops through the floor at that. Why? Why do you need to remember? Why now? And why is it that, whenever anyone tells you not to worry, you immediately assume the worst and start worrying? You may as well just throw a chair through the window now and save some time. At least then, Charlie won’t have to say any more. There. Subject closed.   
You both manage to remain calm long enough to sit down and drink your tea and clutch at each other’s hands. You lament over how much you missed him this time and Charlie vows to absolutely fuck your brains out that night. All is back to normal until he drops the bombshell.   
“So, they’re moving the trial,” he says in a flat voice as he sits back in his chair. “To California.” That makes absolutely no sense and the only thing you can picture is a tour bus and a circus tent and taking the act on the road. Like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, but with less acid and more divorces.   
“The whole thing?” you ask. “I didn’t even know that was something that could happen.” You think back on your childhood days staying home from school when you were sick. All those episodes of Divorce Court never prepared you for this. “What the hell?!” you demand.   
“Nicole refiled,” Charlie says, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “She enrolled Henry in school out there and something about establishing residency, I guess.” You’ve known Nicole to be moody and changeable and a pain-in-the-ass, passive aggressive wife, but this is diabolical. And it doesn’t feel like anything other than an open declaration of war.   
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Charlie sounds almost desperate. His eyes are red as he looks back at you and you notice how his hands shake as he reaches for the teapot. “Hire new lawyers now? I’m supposed to make it look like I’ve put down roots out there and have a stable home environment for Henry? He has a stable home environment. It’s here! But sure, I can just rent someplace else like no problem. Fuck!” he swears as he drags his fingers through his hair, making it look even more disheveled. “The goddamn show is moving to Broadway and I can only be there for what, like two rehearsals a week now? How the hell are we supposed to manage with that?”   
The anger is obvious, but you can hear the panic creeping into his voice and the sound makes you sick to your stomach. You’re trying really hard to let him vent his own feelings and remember that this is not about you, but you’re so damn frustrated! Why can’t any of this be easy for him? You’ll always be moral support and you’ll keep it together if he needs you to. But right now, you feel like flipping the table over and shrieking, “Universe! Stop doing shit to my married boyfriend!”   
Charlie buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. You silently add a whopping dose of ibuprofen to the list of things you need to do for him tonight. “Apparently, I have to pay for half of Nicole’s legal fees and now my own housing costs. And all the fucking airfare? Flying there and back all the time? I… I can’t do this. She’s….” He stops and looks around your small apartment almost desperately, as if the answers could be hung on your walls or written in your grandma’s old cookbook. “God, she could destroy my whole life, (Y/N),” He continues in a lower voice. “All of it. Take my son away from me, my theater company, my whole life. Everything I’ve worked for and created, just gone. And I can’t do anything about it! I have to just stand by and let her?”  
Again, he covers his face, whether to stop himself from crying or stop himself from screaming, you don’t care. Either way, it’s goddamn unacceptable and you have to fix this. “Okay, stop. Stop,” You order him softly as you pull his hands down. “Charlie,” you ask. “What do you need here from me?”   
“Other than just you?” he asks and shrugs helplessly. “I really don’t know.” But the wheels in your head have already started turning. No way in fucking hell are you going to let things spiral away from him like this. “Okay,” you sigh as you try to organize the ideas already popping into your head. “I’m definitely not going to be able to spend four days a week out there with you, but I do have sick time and vacation days and I’m sure I can make something work with that.”   
All right. Visiting hours are taken care of. This is a good start. Now keep going. You frown. “God, I don’t know how many off the top of my head, but I know I have a crap-ton of frequent flyer miles. I’ll go online at some point tonight and transfer those to you, okay?” You know that “Tropical Island Getaway” you’d vaguely been dreaming of since childhood is never going to actually happen anyway. You blame Wheel of Fortune for that one.  
What else? What else? You bite your lip as you wrack your brain. Charlie sits across from you, staring like at you like the goddamn Easter Bunny has materialized in your kitchen and he can’t believe his eyes. You can send him nudes as a morale booster. Nudes? Sexting? Never mind. Not when phones records can be counted as testimony. Dammit.  
And the words leave your mouth before they’ve even become a solid thought. “I mean, shit, if you need me to, I’ll move into your place and help with rent. That would take at least some of the strain off.” Yikes. Did you really just say that? And would you actually do that? The answer is easy. Of course, you would. For him.   
“Really?” Charlie asks. He sounds utterly disbelieving, but a hint of sarcasm still colors his words.  
“Why not?” you shrug. “I like your apartment. You have a washer and dryer. And your bed is bigger.” Unless it becomes public record and somehow jeopardizes him getting custody of Henry, there really is no reason why you shouldn’t move in together.   
You can see he’s losing steam though and all the prior events are catching up to him. His shoulders are slumping and the dark circles under his eyes are getting darker as the sun moves across the sky outside your kitchen window. “You said yourself, it would take a hell of a lot to get you to leave your place.” Charlie’s voice cracks with frustration and defeat, but it’s still an accusation and he still throws it with as much strength as he can muster.  
But you don’t deflect it or even fire back with your own. Instead, you’re out of your seat and in his arms in an instant. And if your combined weight breaks the chair, then so be it. Charlie’s dining set is nicer anyway. You want to be closer to him, to ease some of the anguish this whole thing causes him. Just see him happy and keep him that way.   
He looks way too relieved and too grateful as one arm snakes around your waist and his other hand goes up to cup your cheek. “I really don’t deserve you,” he says and shrugs. “Shut up,” you scoff, smiling into his palm. “You know you do.” Just as you’re convinced that you deserve him. So, you’re both selfish and horrible, but why shouldn’t you be selfish together? Charlie sighs and rubs his thumb across your lower lip. “But you’re so perfect, how are you so perfect?” You have to laugh at that. “Do not put me on a pedestal, Mr. Barber. You know better than that. I’ll fall off that shit and break my leg.” Charlie shakes his head. “I don’t want you on a pedestal,” he says. “I want you down here with me.” He slides his hands down your arms and over your back, pulling you closer to him and cradling you against his chest. “I don’t intend on going anywhere else, I promise,” you tell him.   
Knowing Charlie, it’ll only be a matter of time before you start to feel his hardening cock strain through his khakis and press into your thighs. Before you’ll swing your legs around and straddle his lap, when he slips his hand between your legs and his tongue into your mouth.   
It won’t be until much, much later, after he carries you off to your too-small bed and makes you come at least four times, that you’ll finally allow your mind to wander onto topics like lease agreements and whose pillows are nicer, what train you’ll need to take to work now, address labels and Lord in Heaven, how the hell are you going to explain this one to your parents?


	8. Not Losing a Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still secret and it's still safe. But with cohabitation around the corner and definite plans for a second marriage looming, Charlie and Reader admit that it's time to widen the circle of trust and bring in a few new co-conspirators. And with that, they also face the very real truth that this tinder box of a relationship could go up at any minute.

You and Charlie can still risk lunch together, at least. As long as it’s not too early in the day or late enough to rouse suspicion. You also avoid ordering anything too sexy, like a French Dip or cherry pie. And you’re careful to not so much as brush a finger against his for fear that his touch would reveal your whole heart to everyone in the café. Who this guy? Hell no! I’ve known him forever, he’s like my big brother! This thing is entirely, 100 % platonic.   
Charlie sighs into his clam chowder. He’s going to taste so fishy later, but you decide to let it go and pick your battles. “I feel like, with all this moving in and things changing as rapidly as they are, I think maybe we ought to talk to your parents?” he asks. “Soon?” The thought of talking to someone and saying everything out loud, is harrowing. Especially your parents. They’ve always been supportive of your choices, no matter how ridiculous they seemed. They’ve allowed you freedom to discover things on your own and always welcomed you back with open arms when things went awry. But you’re sure that even spin adultery into a learning opportunity. And will you get the A-Word out of your head? It’s not even true, really. Stop beating yourself up.   
“No, you’re totally right,” you agree. Parents? What parents? You never had any parents. No parents and that is not your boyfriend tight there. With the bowl of soup and the big brown eyes. Shit. “That’s going to be one hell of an interesting conversation though, isn’t it?” Ideally, you’d like to remain the Other Woman until the very last divorce detail is settled, then surprise your mom and dad with a flashy reveal. God, you’re so fucking in denial.   
“Your dad?” Charlie asks, gesturing with his spoon. “He’s not the ask-for-permission type, is he?” You snort a nose full of iced tea as you laugh mid-swallow. “Oh, hell no!” you cough. “We are too progressive for that.” Your dad would not be pleased at Charlie for asking a question like that. How dare you besmirch my strong, independent daughter’s honor?! And though it won’t ever happen, you do like the fantasy scenario of your dad slapping Charlie in the face with a glove and challenging him to a duel over it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Real-World Charlie says as he passes you a napkin so you can wipe your eyes.  
“Yeah, but Dad likes you!” And that part is, at least true. Even back in school, while you kept a steady stream of drama geeks coming through the house, Charlie and your dad always seemed to find something to connect over. Maybe it was because he was so mature. A wise and worldly graduate student. And your mom? Well, she automatically became everyone’s mom, regardless of maturity. And you never said anything then and probably still wouldn’t bring it up, but you suspect that Charlie secretly enjoyed being taken care of.   
“Yeah, well everybody likes you until you’re fucking their daughter,” Charlie mumbles as he glances over your shoulder and signals the waiter for the check. And you sigh. Really, who doesn’t live together and have sex on every single piece of furniture before their married? Or before they’re divorced?  
It’s a miracle how quickly schedules can be coordinated enough for everyone to be in the same place at the same time. Even so, you’re already hoarding newspapers and bidding farewell to a few of your more repellant articles of clothing (It’s your gym shirt! From high school!). The idea of co-habitation is absolutely intoxicating. But by Saturday afternoon, everything looks normal. Just bringing your frazzled, mid-divorce BFF over to Mom and Dad’s for lunch. And it really is all about the high neck blouse this season.   
You arrive at your parents’ door with the customary bottle of wine. It didn’t seem like all that long ago that you would show up at their door with the offering of your dirty laundry. The Greeting Ritual continues with cheek kisses, hugs and handshakes. “How have you been?” your dad asks Charlie after one of those manly handshake-hugs where they try to knock each other’s vertebrae loose with the back pats. “One day at a time, you know?” Charlie responds. It’s a vague answer. A cop-out answer. Kind of like ‘Living the Dream’. No one even knows what The Dream actually is. Also, according to your dad, the wine is a ‘good year”. No one is really sure what that means either.   
The subject of divorce follows you down the hall into the family room. Somehow, it makes you feel left out, makes you linger in the doorway like you’re watching your best friend from school and your best friend from music camp meet each other and bond without you. Your mom nods sympathetically. “Divorces have the power to cause so much damage, they really do. Especially with kids involved.”   
“You let us know if you need anything, all right?” Your dad settles back into his favorite spot on the sofa and pats the cushion next to him. Charlie hesitates and you meet his eye from across the room and duck your head. That way, no one can see you press your lips together and fight the giggle rising in your throat. He did say ‘anything’. Maybe asking for his daughter’s hand might be the right strategy after all.   
“Drink, Charlie?” your mom asks as she breezes past you on her way to the kitchen.  
“Scotch?”   
“Rocks?”  
“You know me too well.” Charlie smiles fondly at her and you curse yourself for thinking that this would be awkward and awful. Your mom stops beside you and taps your arm. But you’re too engrossed in the conversation happening between Charlie and your dad to respond. It sounds like it might be important.  
“You still into Ken Burns?” your dad asks. Charlie nods as your mom taps you even harder. “(Y/N), come and help me in the kitchen for a minute.”   
“What an antiquated and sexist thing to say!” you hiss, but you follow her anyway. Behind you, you can hear Charlie and your dad continue their conversation. “1981,” your dad sounds almost offended. “A New Yorker, born and bred and never seen a documentary about the Brooklyn Bridge! Unbelievable!”   
In the kitchen, Charlie’s laughter is muted and your mom has already poured the scotch and uncorked the bottle of wine. She pushes the glass across the counter at you and fixes you with a patented penetrating Mom Stare. You feel a bit like a teenager again, like Y/N, did you sneak out of the house/raid the liquor cabinet/order a pay-per-view movie? You’re ready to confess anything when she asks, “Is Charlie all right? Really?”  
Simultaneous relief and affection for your mom make you weak. Even if her interrogation skills are on point with you, she’s still “Everyone’s Mom” just like she always was, watching out for you and all your friends.   
“He’s okay,” you sigh, watching the ice cubes float and bump into each other in Charlie’s Scotch. “Just… he’s just really stressed out. I admit, I have, like, zero experience with divorces, but this whole thing just seems like a complete circus. Like a circus on fire.” Your mom chuckles softly as she passes a glass of wine to you. “Welcome to being a real grownup, dear heart,” she says and holds up her own glass. “It’s weird and it’s messy and very seldom does any of it make sense.” She’s about to find out how “real” of a grownup you’ve become. Cheers!   
The Ritual resumes as you eat and you and your three most loved people in the world are reduced to making small talk. You parents question you about work, sleep and vegetables. You compliment them both on dinner and your mom congratulates Charlie on the play. Your dad tells you that you have excellent taste in wine and you say thank you. Who’s turn is it next? Truth or Dare, Charlie? I dare you to eat my pussy after we get home tonight.   
You fold your napkin in your lap and clear your throat. Should you tap your fork on your glass? That’s what people do, right? They’re all turning their eyes toward you anyway and you halfway expect somebody to pass you a mic. Dammit. You swallow a (rather large) sip of wine and continue. “Okay, so, a thing happened,” you say. Well that sounded stupid. What thing? The Russian Revolution? The Beatles at Shea Stadium? You peeing your pants at school in kindergarten? Both Charlie and your parents are giving you confused and concerned looks.  
“A reasonably sized thing,” you elaborate. Across the table, Charlie’s brows shoot up at your choice of words and you stumble. Size, right. Like his dick. Maybe if you just grabbed him by the collar and kissed the fuck out of him, Mom and Dad would get the message. Oh, you’re going to need more wine for this. “We,” you continue and pause again. You set your glass back down on the table. “We” sounds too accusatory and you feel like you should take more of the blame for this announcement. “I mean, I…” Shit! You’ve already blown it. It’s done. Seizing up your glass, you down the rest of your wine in two gulps. “Charlie and I have been sleeping together for the last, what?” You glance over at him for confirmation. “Six weeks?”  
“About that,” Charlie shrugs, following your lead and throwing caution to the wind. Your dad leans forward and frowns, resting his chin on his hands. You recognize it immediately as his “Physiatrist Pose”. Lord help you now, this is it.   
“Goodness!” your mom says after swallowing half of her own drink. “When I asked you if he was all right, that wasn’t quite what I meant.” And you’re a thirteen-year-old girl again whining, Mooooom, you’re emBARrassing me!  
But your attention turns immediately back to your dad. “Why?” he asks. A simple question, but one with so many explanations and excuses and little lies and apologies that can be woven into the answer. When Dad asks questions like these, they’re never mocking or angry. Just honest and open. But always expecting an honest answer in return.  
You hesitate and glance in Charlie’s direction because who else is going to help you when Mom and Dad have you on the rack? He’s frowning slightly, but still maintaining eye contact with all three of you. As you watch, he sets his glass down and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear.   
“Because I love him,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I always have, God that sounds so stupid, or just if recent developments sort of made it happen.” Your dad is looking more sympathetic now and less like the objective medical professional and Charlie is looking only at you. “And it’s awful?” you go on. “I know that it’s awful to fall in love with someone who’s married and not even have the decency to wait for a divorce.”  
“People out there have done so much worse.” Your mom motions for you to hand her your empty glass and she refills it. “Lots of grey areas when it comes to issues of morality, my girl. And ‘Awful’ is always a relative term.” You smile gratefully at her. Suddenly, you can’t wait to strut down Broadway, wearing your scarlet A and you know you’ll rock that shit because you’re a grown ass woman who can fuck any guy she wants.   
But the voice of your dad brings you back to earth. He sits back in his chair and says, “You’ll have to forgive me for this, Charlie, because it really is a ridiculous question, but just what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?” Instead of bristling at the question, which you honestly expected, Charlie continues to look thoughtful. “It’s not a ridiculous question at all,” he shrugs. “I think it’s a totally valid question, especially considering the circumstances here. And I completely understand it.” He glances back at you, smiles slightly and turns his attention back to your dad.  
“My son”, Charlie continues, “Now, granted he’s only eight, so there is quite a difference. But it scares the hell out of me to think that one day he’ll go out into the world and the rest of the world won’t love him as much as I do.” Are his eyes getting teary? You can’t tell from where you’re sitting. Tears are fucking pay dirt for your dad. A man who’s in touch with his emotions? He loves nothing more.  
Charlie continues. “I’d rather just keep him away from all of it, never let him experience anything that could hurt him. But of course, it doesn’t work that way.” Your dad nods knowingly at this statement and suddenly it’s just a chat, father to father. Only wanting what’s best for their children. You watch your dad and Charlie settle on common ground and meet in the middle. You realize how much your hand is shaking and carefully set down your glass.   
“As far as my intentions with (Y/N), I intend to love her. I already love her. And I intend to do everything I can to show her how much she is loved.” You know you should be watching your dad right now, scanning his face and body language for clues. Is he angry? Are his arms folded? Does he have a single glove in his hand? But even in the dining room where you grew up, the hallowed site of Thanksgiving dinners, birthday cakes and algebra homework, Charlie is the most familiar thing in the room. And you can’t tear your eyes away from him.  
“But I don’t want to spoil her and give her everything she wants, either.” Didn’t you warn him not to put you on a pedestal? And didn’t he tell you that he didn’t want you that far away? All that wine must be going to your brain, because this might be the part where you actually pass out. Charlie is frowning now, trying to find the right words for both you and your dad. “I want to work together with her,” he continues. “Create things with her and solve problems together. I intend to cherish her, absolutely, and always, always support her. But I’m not let her get away with shit either.” He looks from your dad to you and smiles. “Just like she’s always done for me.”  
Motherfucker, he’s going to make you cry too. In front of your parents. Your dad finally turns to look at you and you know he’s still expecting an honest response. “I’m going to marry him,” you blurt. It’s one part defiant, one part simpering Disney Princess, but Daddy I LOVE him!   
Your mom coughs and splutters on her wine. “M-marry?!” she chokes. “Is it a little soon? Just a bit?”  
“Not right away!” you argue. “Jesus, Mother! Not like, before the ink on the divorce papers is dry, but eventually. Why not?” Why not watch him sign papers on the 3rd floor, fuck him in the elevator on the way up and have the Justice of the Peace marry you on the 7th floor?   
“Is this the first you’ve heard of this?” Dad cocks his head in Charlie’s direction with a playful smile. The camaraderie between them holding up still.  
Charlie scoffs and frowns. “No, of course not. I asked her. Last week sometime.”  
“Saturday,” you whisper. Then louder. “It was Saturday, remember? We went to dinner that night.” You can tell from the way he looks at you that Charlie absolutely remembers. But your parents do not need to be privy to the all the events of that night: fingering in the cab, fingering in the hotel room, sex on the bed, sex in the shower, Charlie’s tongue in your cunt. Nope, just dinner.   
Your mom scrunches up her face and shrugs. “Well, it would definitely be frowned upon in polite society.”  
“Considered adultery,” your dad adds and you deflate. Fuck you, A-Word! Charlie shakes his head, looking down at his napkin. “I admit, Mr. (L/N) the timing is not ideal.”  
“But polite society never had a place in this house.” And now your eyes are totally tearing up as you smile at your mom. She’s so great. “Speaking of houses,” you sniff and dab at your eyes. “I’m moving in with him. I gave notice yesterday.” And this might be the point where you push things too far. Your dad does an honest-to-God facepalm and Mom’s eyes are as big as Grandma’s Noritake china.   
“Is it…?” she asks. “Is it a great idea? Now? Ummmm. Jumping in a little soon.” You’re the impulsive, emotional one. But Charlie, older and wiser, a responsible father for God’s sake! He should be discouraging this! Well, fuck that. Time to bring out the princess again. But this time, she’s not a naïve and insufferable twit. This time, she’s a real grown-up. Wearing a high-neck blouse instead of her frilly princess dress.  
And you explain to them, in detail, about offsetting the cost of Charlie’s court expenses, about the trial moving and all the strain it’s going to cause. Henry. And, really, this isn’t just you impetuously throwing yourself onto some guy’s dick. It’s Charlie! Look at him! Sitting there at the table in his cardigan and his hair is so pretty and yes, it really is as soft as it looks! “Guys look,” you say to Mom and Dad. “This is something that we’ve given so much thought to! We’ve done the homework, made lists and crunched numbers.”  
“It makes sense,” Charlie adds. “It really does.”   
“Plus,” you reach for your refilled wine glass and shrug. “I’m not exactly asking permission, here.” Jesus Christ, that came out sounding a lot nastier than you had intended and you splutter an apology. If the bratty princess’s parents don’t punish her, then her betrothed just may have to bend her over his own knee. That might be something that warrants further investigation. But it will have to wait until later. “I don’t have anything to hide from you guys,” you tell your mom and dad. “You deserve better than that. But this is what it is.” And they’re still there.   
In the end, all Mom and Dad do is offer tentative congratulations and support you, and Charlie now too, with unconditional love. “Family is family,” your dad says firmly, sounding much more like a mob boss than a child psychiatrist. Of course, they also offer to help you pack and move. Since a crew of burly stagehands has also been recruited to help, it should be easy work now.  
And when you stand by the front door getting ready to leave, Charlie holds out your jacket for you and your mom touches his cheek. “Take care of yourself now too,” she reminds him. Still everyone’s mom.


	9. Mornings and In Betweens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things always look different in the daylight. When a night of impulses and surrenders fades with the rising sun, Charlie and Reader find themselves still entwined in each other and neither one able or willing to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah for non-linear storytelling! Just a little jump back to the beginning. A chance to further explore characters and their processes immediately following the eventsGRATUTITOUS SEX! CHAPTER!

It’s been an uncomfortable night. A sleepless, hotel room night. Your shoulder is stiff and the light that shines around the shades and through your eyelids is even a different color than what you’re used to at home. Charlie is curled up behind you, the big spoon, pressed head-to-foot against you. His arm is draped over your middle and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. In the wide bed and the unfamiliar morning sunlight, you allow yourself think how incredibly right everything seems. As you shift under the weight of his arm and Charlie snuffles behind you, you also feel the hardness that presses into your back. “Charlie?” you whisper, pushing against him the slightest bit. “Is that your penis?”   
“Sorry,” he groans as he pulls his arm from around you. “Happens in the mornings sometimes. Here, I’ll turn over.” He starts to move and the idea of losing that closeness makes your heart jump into your throat. “No, don’t go!” You reach behind you; fingers gripping the fabric of his pajama pants and hold him in place. This all has to come to an end at some point, but there has to be time still for more.  
“Actually, wait,” you say as you make up your mind. “Roll over onto your back.” Charlie snakes his arm back around you and rolls you over with him and it feels warm and soft, cuddled up to him like this. Too warm. He sighs as you run your hand over his chest. Your thumb snagging in the t-shirt’s wrinkles as you pass your palm over his nipples. Which harden satisfyingly under your touch.  
You both silently watch your hand’s progress down his chest and stomach, pausing occasionally to pull up on his shirt or push down on the blankets. “Are you serious?” Charlie breathes as your hand slips under the waistband of his pants. “What?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around him. Goddammit! Goddammit, he feels good! “Doesn’t every guy want to get his dick sucked as he watches the sun come up?”   
“Oh, fuck.” Charlie squeezes his eyes shut as his head falls onto the pillow. But he peeks back up as you begin to move your hand from the base of his cock slowly up to the head. “Hey, (Y/N)?” he stammers. “I know I keep asking you these awkward questions, but are you usually this…. insatiable?”  
“Honestly, no,” you answer, looking into his eyes but keeping a hand on his cock. And you think back over past partners and relationships. “But Charlie, I’ve never wanted anyone like this!” It feels a little scary, saying it out loud and makes you feel stupidly vulnerable. Is it going to make him jump through the window and take off running as soon as he hits the pavement? You’re not sure if anything would surprise you at this point. But Charlie gives you a look that’s more sympathy than panic. “I get it,” he says, nodding. “Like, there’s just no way to get enough of the other person. And it feels like there never will be. Addicting.”   
Of course, he gets it. You smile fondly at him before turning your attention back to the task at hand and working his pants down over his hips. You don’t even bother trying to stifle your moan as you free his cock. And again, you marvel at just how attractive it is! Long and thick but not to the point of being grotesque. Flushed red and curving up toward his belly button, with a nice roadmap of veins and one perfect pearl of precum gleaming at the tip.  
“Oh, I love this thing!” you sigh as you give it a few quick strokes. You want so badly to worship him! Take your time and spoil his beautiful dick with feathery kisses and long slow licks until he’s squirming and sobbing underneath you. He deserves all that.   
But you have needs too. And right now, you need to feel that thing halfway down to your stomach. You cast Charlie one last apologetic look, before you open wide and sink your mouth down over him, taking him in as far as he will go. All the way down in one steady motion until you can feel your throat as it squeezes around his cock and your nose as it presses into his pubic bone. Oh, that’s so much better, having him in your mouth like this. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N),” he growls as he pushes his fingers through your hair. “Fuck, why wasn’t this dick in your mouth 10 years ago?”  
“Who cares?” you snap as you pull off him. “Just shove it back in there and stop dwelling on the past!” Well, you’re quite the little whore this morning, aren’t you, with your dirty talk? But Charlie is smart enough to follow orders and, keeping one hand on the back of your head, he grips the base of his cock with the other and guides it back into you and where it belongs. Good God, why weren’t the two of you doing this 10 years ago?! You could have been sucking him off in the booth instead of taking a nap up there. You could have been swallowing his cum in one the bathrooms in Bobst every day.  
It's still early, but you could conceivably do this all morning. Last night, you marveled over how perfectly he fit in your pussy, but this is almost better. And it wasn’t that long ago that he was in your pussy, making you spasm around him as he filled you to overflowing with his cum. He fits just as well in the morning, slides all the way in just as easily. And you know already that you don’t ever want this to stop.  
You imagine that you can still taste yourself on him, your own juices mixed with his sweat, mingling with the musky scent of pubic hair. The way it smells and how the curls tickle the tip of your nose as you bob your head up and down his length. Then all the way down. Then not quite all the way up, sucking gently on the head of Charlie’s cock, the tip of your tongue pressed into the frenulum.   
When you pull off to give your jaw a brief rest, you continue to jerk him wetly. Watching the red and swollen head of his cock emerge and disappear back into your fist with a delicious plek, plek, pleck sound is mesmerizing. And when Charlie runs his fingers over your forehead and groans, “God, you’re good at this!” he sighs. “And so fucking pretty! Look at you!” You’re not exactly in the habit of watching yourself go down on guys and had never really given much thought to whether or not you look porn-star perfect. You’re more of a task-oriented girl. But when Charlie tells you that you’re pretty, with your rumpled, too-big shirt, swollen lips and 1 hour of sleep eye bags, you know he’s telling the truth. You are fucking gorgeous! And you smile and you adore him and his hand is shaking as he touches you.  
You dive back down onto him, spearing his cock down your throat. And the way he says your name would have made you smile even harder if your mouth wasn’t so full of him. Charlie grunts as he involuntarily thrusts his hips up into you, then chokes out a “Shit! I’m sorry.” You look up and lock eyes with him, raising your eyebrows and granting him permission. The feeling of him rolling his hips against your face to get just a little bit deeper, to find just a little more friction, it’s obscene! Your entire pussy is throbbing and your clit feels like it’s on fire. It’s obscene, but it’s divine, almost holy and so, so right!   
It takes a minute until you’ve found the perfect rhythm, moving together and meeting each other in the middle. Up and down and in and out, twisting your hand at the base of his cock, squeezing your throat around him as he dips down into your pharynx. You keep him like that for a few moments, pushed in a far as he’ll go. With your mouth stretched wide around him, you imagine that you can feel him all the way down into your belly. Just like you could almost feel him all the way up there when he’d fucked you so hard last night. In addition to so many other attributes, Charlie Barber has an incredible dick!   
“S-sweetheart?” he croaks. “God! Honey? I’m about to… oh, fuck, fuck!” You feel his gigantic hands clutching at your shoulders, giving you a warning, a chance to avoid the inevitable. Bless you Charlie, but you’re a ride-or-die cocksucker. You slide up his length, keeping the head held loosely between your lips, your tongue flicking in and out of his slit. And you scowl. Charlie’s sits propped up on one elbow. His eyes are wide and shiny, his mouth hanging open. You take in his pink cheeks and wild hair. And shake your head quickly. “Oh, please!” It sounds like a prayer as you sink your mouth down onto him, taking him easily back down into your throat. Above you, you hear the sound of him collapsing back onto the bed. And you hum as the motion briefly pushes him deeper.   
You’re almost ready to abandon his pleasure at this point and focus solely on your own. And if you end up coming before him, just from this, then that’s the icing on the cake. Because this! This is the fucking cake. Surely nothing could ever feel as good as this! You slide up and down his length several more times, building speed and sucking hard until you hear his breath catch and feel his cock swell inside you. And that’s it! That’s it! You slam down onto him, taking him down as far as he’ll go. Your lips are pressed flush against him as you swallowswallowswallow! You reach down and squeeze his balls, urging him to empty them into your belly. Breathing hard through your nose. My God, are you really doing this? Are you actually sucking Charlie’s dick?! You are and it’s so fucking HOT! A few more minutes of this and you would have come yourself!   
“Holy fuck!” Charlie pants as you pull off him and sit up. You should be flattered at his reaction, but the truth is you’re so turned on now, you could cry. “You swallow!” he sounds completely disbelieving and almost… grateful? What the hell did Nicole do, then? Leave the room so he could finish himself? Or just never give him head at all?   
“It’s just courtesy,” you whimper, shifting your hips against the bed, seeking out some kind of friction. “If I care enough about a guy to have his cock in my mouth,” you bite your lip and inhale sharply through your nose. Did you have to say that? “Then I care enough to swallow his cum!” You last word ends on a plaintive whine and Charlie peers down at you, looking concerned. He must notice the growing wet spot between your legs. Then his eyes widen and he gasps in realization. “Shit, I’m sorry, honey! Here, come here.” He helps you lie down and moves between your legs.   
You’re practically clawing at him as he yanks over the soaked crotch of your too-big shorts and you hear him gasp. Your cunt is swollen and pulsing and you’re honest-to-God flowing for him! You only need to say one word, “Charlie.” And he’s scooping up your slick and applying the prefect amount (God, how is it perfect?) of pressure to your clit.   
Your orgasm slams into you suddenly with the force of an atom bomb. Unable to make any sound or even breathe, you lift your hips off the bed and twist your fingers into the sheet beneath you. “Oh, shit!” Charlie’s voice stutters and cracks and his thumb keeps circling your clit and it all feels endless! You continue to ride out the waves as you explode over his hand, spraying his wrist with your cum and soaking the clean bedding. “Make a mess, sweetheart!” he grunts under his breath. “That’s it.”  
He shoves two wet fingers into you and feels how your cunt contracts around him like your throat had just done. “Fuck yeah!” Charlie groans. You feel him press into your g-spot as you’re coming and coming, grinding and fucking yourself on his fingers. “Keep squeezing that pussy on my fingers, Baby,” Charlie urges. “God, you’re so fucking tight!”   
“Fuuuuck!” you wail as the pleasure begins to ebb. Charlie rubs one hand soothingly over your stomach as you sink back down, still shaking, onto the mattress.   
You press your fist against your mouth to keep from making any less coherent or more obscene sounds. As you catch your breath (Christ, you’ve never fucking come like that!), Charlie continues staring at you, at your stretched-out shorts and dripping thighs. And a small hysterical laugh rises in your throat.  
“Oh my God, Baby!” Charlie whines as he looks down at you. “Fuck! Jesus Christ.”  
“Are you having a stroke?” you giggle. “Speaking in tongues?”   
“Yeah, tongues,” Charlie, answers, his hand still on you. “I have never…” he shakes his head. “Not like that!”  
If you look at the ceiling and not his face, you won’t start crying. “Yeah, I know,” you whisper. And not with anyone. Not the high school infatuation, not the smattering of long-term relationships or the what-the-fuck fucks in between. Even your favorite vibrator has never made you feel this good. Or this loved. Or this guilty. God, not even Mariah Carey felt emotions like this!  
Charlie rubs his hand on his forehead and you wonder if he remembers your cum that’s all over his fingers. “Do you want to take another shower?” he asks abruptly. “With me this time?” And that actually sounds really, really lovely and you realize that you’re cold and sticky. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m starting to feel less sexy and more just gross.” Ever the gentleman, Charlie helps you up from the bed. “You could never be less sexy.” He shakes his head. “I’ll get your clean clothes,” he promises. “Meet me in there?”   
It’s a standard bathtub sized shower. Roomy enough for two people to fit as long as they don’t attempt any sexy shenanigans. Or any kind of advanced bathing. But you don’t seem interested in either. Just a quick rinse of the bodily fluids, and there’s nothing left but the warmth of the water and the nearness of each other. You play a game of connect the dots with the moles and freckles on Charlie’s chest, but can’t picture what sort of constellation they form. He tilts your head back with his enormous hands, letting the water flow over your hair while he kisses your neck. Your nipples are hard, pebbled up tight as they brush against him. Water drips from the tip of Charlie’s semi hard cock as his thumbs trace the veins inside your elbows. Your toes bump against his and you breathe the same steamy air. He rests his chin on the top of your head.  
After you’re dressed in clean clothes with brushed hair and another load of laundry is going, Charlie has one more offer. “Breakfast?” You shrug. It’s a respectable breakfast hour by now and the café on the next block has pancakes that are truly worth dying for. You walk together, but not together. No handholding or deep, loving looks, lest some morning commuter sees you and broadcasts it over the airwaves, dropping script pages with a Mid-Atlantic accent. You don’t even walk arm-in-arm, dodging tourists and taxis like you used to. Nothing is different outside of the living room or the wide bed. An early breakfast with an old friend.  
The only difference is the small dark stone of guilt that had begun forming inside you is already starting to crack, letting narrow shafts of light in. And underneath all the howling shame and fear is a steady beat, a certainty you’ve never known before. And when Charlie taps your arm at the intersection, breaking your reverie and pointing to the light. You step off the edge with him toward the same destination. Green light, go.


End file.
